


Takin' Care of Business

by The_Lionheart



Series: Dimension MS7-7 [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ableist Language, Abuser apologizes, All three Pines Brothers walk into a diner, Allusion to abusive relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Awkward young babysitter Stan, BAMF Ma Pines, Bad Thoughts, Blood and Injury, Closeted Character, Corporate bullshit, Cuban Ma Pines, Demonic Possession, Depression, Dial it back Ma, Fist Fights, Gaslighting, Generation skip, Happy Ending, Implied Cannibalism?, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Mild references to criminal acts of public drunkenness, MySpace messages, Nightmares, PONYTAIL STAN, Panic Attacks, Pines Family Dynamics, Psychic Ma Pines, Self-Harm, Sneaky Protective Brothers, Sorry Stan, Stan really needs to learn how to not be ableist even if he's talking about himself, Stangst, Suicidal Thoughts, The Mindscape, The Pines Brothers finally have a frank and emotional conversation, The horrible clown doll from the original Poltergeist movie, This family deserves something nice, You know how sometimes you blurt things out in the car?, brotherly shit brothers do, fire is the solution to half their problem, it does not go well, shermie's got a good plan, you know what guys? merry christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:39:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: The birth certificates read: Stanford Filbrick Pines, born June 15th, 1986; Stanley Aaron Pines, born June 15th, 1986.





	1. Chapter 1

_Ding_. One notification.

He glances at the screen. One message from: Stanford Filbrick Pines.

"Nope," Stan says, tying his hair back to keep his headset from tangling up in it.

 _Ding_. Two notifications. He frowns and checks the screen again: two messages from Stanford Filbrick Pines.

He ignores them and makes himself a travel mug of coffee- he's not leaving the house, obviously, but it's bigger than most mugs and he's a lot less likely to spill anything out of it. The bag of powdered mini-donuts he got from the 7-11 yesterday is still half full, so he grabs that, too.

_Ding. Ding. Ding._

"For cryin' out loud," he complains loudly to himself, picking up his phone to take a look. No texts- as far as he knows, Ford doesn't have his phone number- just a series of Facebook messages. He swipes with his thumb to read from the beginning while he eats, white sugar covering his scruffy forever-o'clock-shadow and the chest of his undershirt.

_Stanley, have you checked your mail? Please respond as soon as possible._

_Stanley check your mail._

_STANLEY STOP IgNORINg my mESSAGES_

_stanley just do it stan just check your mail right now do it_

_stan please_

Stan blinks, jams another tiny donut in his mouth, and quickly types back. _Can't rn, working. ttyl_

"Wow," Stan mutters, putting his phone down and taking a sip from his mug.

He signs in to his systems, flips the microphone on his headset down, and stretches his mouth into a wide grin because his manager keeps harping on the fact that the customers can hear it if you're smiling when you talk to them. "Thank you for calling Apple, this is Stan with Customer Service, how can I help you today?"

He doesn't check his mail until his shift's over- hey, he's not going to screw up a good thing here by taking liberties. It's just the usual- credit card companies trying to take advantage of the fact that he's finally starting to fix his credit score, an issue of Horror Movie Aficionados Magazine, blue Val-Pak envelope that never has a coupon for anything he could actually use-

-and a single postcard, warped and slightly stained, from Gravity Falls, Oregon.

_Stan- PLEASE COME!!!! -Ford_

"Ohhhkay," Stan mutters, massaging his temple as he tucks the rest of his mail under one burly arm.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Okay, Stan, just- relax," Stan tells himself, sitting in the front seat of his car and staring at the cabin in the woods. Shit, Ford had to build himself a house that looks like it belongs in a horror movie. Stan realizes he will definitely not be relaxing. He sighs, jams the knit hat down over his head, and gets out of the car.

He knocks on the door and has to step back to avoid being hit in the face with a goddamn crossbow.

"Who are you? Have you come to steal my eyes?!" his brother shrieks, and Stan lowers the fist he'd been using to knock.

"Stanford, you literally- you asked me to come," he says slowly, scowling. "I texted you five minutes ago saying I was here."

"I had to destroy the phone, it was- he was using it to harass me," Ford mutters darkly. Stan frowns- Ford's a wreck, covered in a sheen of sweat, with dark circles under his eyes and unnatural hollows in the pits of his cheeks. "Come in, come inside, just-"

The moment Stan's inside Ford whirls around and shines a penlight in both eyes, frantically going back and forth until Stan bats him away. "For fuck's sake, Ford! What the hell is this about?"

"Sorry, sorry, I- I just had to check," Ford says, breathing hard. "Are- are you wearing your contacts, by any chance?"

"Uh, yeah, bad enough to drive in the snow, I'm half blind without'em," Stan says, and Ford's hands tighten around twin fistfuls of sweater vest. "Ford, are- are you in trouble?"

"We can talk later, just- Stanley, I need you to take your contacts out," Ford says, and Stan huffs out a small laugh.

"Are you kidding? No, I-"

The crossbow is back, and Ford looks terrified- of Stan, like Stan's the one pointing a weapon, for-

Stan sighs, holding up his hands. "Okay, I'm not gonna ask why you're wavin' that thing around, maybe you're takin' your Walking Dead cosplay a little too far, I dunno-"

_"What?"_

"-just give me a minute in the bathroom, I have ta pee and I'll take my contacts out after, I need better light than this to put them away. Okay?"

"And if I think you should just take them out now," Ford says experimentally.

"Then you can explain to Ma why you killed her youngest son with a crossbow, assuming you ever fucking call her," Stan snaps. "Ford, I've been driving for eighteen hours because _you_ begged me to drive up from Piedmont, either you accept that I'm here or you fucking don't. Either way, I'm usin' the john."

"You won't be if I shoot you with the crossbow," Ford says grimly, putting the weapon down.

"Jokes on you, pal, if you shoot me to death my body'll piss itself here, so-"

"The bathroom's that door," Ford interrupts, frowning.

"Thank you," Stan says, slamming the door.

He hates that he came. That all it took was a handful of weird IMs and a postcard to drag him away from his actual life. He hates that he's listening to Ford when Ford is clearly only a coupla state lines away from being an extra in Breaking Bad. He hates that he just does what Ford wants and puts his contacts away in their little case, even though it makes no sense.

He self-consciously slips his spare glasses on as he exits the bathroom, giving the house a cursory glance. The bathroom was half-lit, one of the three bare bulbs over the mirror dark and one flickering weakly, but it had been... well, not clean by anybody's standards, but not so badly used that an hour's elbow grease wouldn't cure most of it. From what he sees of the hallway, the bathroom is the cleanest part of the house. Ford is pacing at the end of the hall, and when he notices Stan he stalks over, performing a brief encore of the bit with the flashlight.

"If you're trying to see if I'm on anything-" Stan says, frowning, and Ford jerks his hands back like he's been stung.

"What? No- no, nothing of the sort. I mean- _are_ you on any-"

"Ford, get to the point," Stan interrupts. "Why did you call me here? Why not Shermie or Ma or-"

"No, no, none of them could- none of them could help me, it had to be you, I need you-" Ford mutters, and Stan feels a pang in the middle of his chest, right in the spot where the kids insist his heart is.

"Ford, I know we ain't... haven't talked much in a while," Stan says softly, tentatively. "But you can talk to me, I'm not gonna judge. Just- what kinda trouble are you in, bro?"

"It's-" Ford's expression softens, and he puts a shaking, too-thin hand on Stan's shoulder. "I don't want you to trouble yourself over it, Stanley, just... please believe me when I say it's literally a matter of life or death."

"Okay, Ford," Stan sighs, instinctively reaching for Ford's hand and giving it a squeeze. "Just... give me enough to understand how to help you, okay?"

"Okay, but, Lee," Ford says, and for a moment he's a small boy again, for a moment they're five years old and looking for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles under the boardwalk in Glass Shard Beach again. Stan can't help but think of the kids once more; they've been dying to meet their other uncle, and Stan honestly thinks it'll do him a world of good to know them. "Lee, you're... you're gonna think I'm losing my mind."

"Losing? Buddy, I got some bad news for ya," Stan says, and Ford sighs heavily, rolling his eyes.

"Appropriate as always, Stanley," he huffs, and Stan gives him his smarmiest grin. "Follow me- I have something I need you to see."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As a miserable teenager Stan used to fantasize about living in another time. Heck, when his Pops was his age, a guy could make a living out of being just smart enough to know he's not that bright, a guy could put personality to work, you didn't need college or even a high school diploma to make good out there. You didn't need a fancy art school degree in cinematography or whatever to make good movies or- it didn't matter, he reminded himself constantly, because you _did_ need talent and Stan didn't have talent, either. It ground his nerves to the bitter, frayed edge when Ford and his Ma would go on about community college being a "good choice" for someone like him. He never found the time or the courage to ask his parents if he could go out for the drama club. He was good at boxing.

He kept a pamphlet for NYU under his pillow for about a week before throwing it out in disgust and self-loathing. No point in hoping, but at least Ford had his eyes on a state school that wasn't too far off- Stan could get a job at the docks when he graduated, wait it out getting the Stan O'War seaworthy for two-and-a-bit years (Ford took a lot of AP classes, he was something like six semesters ahead of the game by senior year) and then they both were going to go get their boating licences, buy a camera and some sound equipment, and spend the rest of their lives making kickass treasure-hunting documentaries. Stan wished he was alive during Pirate Times; he felt pretty sure he'd have made a fucking excellent pirate.

As a miserable teenager Stan used to fantasize about getting kicked out- not that he wanted to be alone, not that he wanted to be cold or hungry, but the idea of at least being away from his Pops, away from perfect-student perfect-son Stanford, at least for a night or two, well... well. And then Stan would feel shitty, of course, because he loves Ford, it's not Ford's fault he's such a fuckup.

Stan didn't mean to do anything to Ford's project, but when he slammed a fist against the tabletop where it rested, a grate fell off and the machine's movements hiccuped. Stan pushed the little grate back on, pushed the screws back into place and tried to tighten them with the edge of his stubby fingernail, and he didn't really think Stanford would be happy to know Stan'd been screwing around with the project but he also didn't think Stanford would come home and accuse Stan of destroying it on purpose, of sabotaging his shot at a full ride at West Coast Tech on purpose. The fight with Ford was bad- the fight with their Pops was worse. For a few minutes there Stan almost thought his father would kick him out, but he eventually made it clear that- while no, in his dad's day and age Stan would've been on the streets like the trash he is- he was going to follow his legal obligation to give Stan a place to stay until he turned eighteen; at that point, Pops said with a snarl, Stan would be out of the house before breakfast.

Stan spent the next seven weeks doing nothing but fantasize about leaving. Ford wouldn't talk to him, and that alone was almost more than Stan could handle. He showed up to classes that he knew he'd fail, kept his head down, and skipped his finals. He knew he wasn't smart enough to graduate without Ford's help, and he knew Pops wouldn't let him stay another school year. It occurred to Stan, driving home from the one exam he thought he'd do okay in- American Lit- that he absolutely could not bear to be in the same auditorium as his family, watching Ford walk across the stage in his cap and gown. He came home- Pops was out, Mom was home babysitting Shermie's son, Ford was reading a book in their room. He grabbed everything he thought he might need- couple pairs of jeans, some socks, some underwear, a couple of shirts, his wallet, his contacts.

"What are you doing?" Ford asked, and Stan shrugged, grabbing his letterman jacket.

"Does it matter?" he asks, and it must not have, because Ford didn't answer. Stan hesitated- Ford usually thought of all of their books as his, but fuck it- and shoved _Monstrous Regiment_ into his bag, too. He grabbed his wall charger and stuck it into his pocket and left.

He ran into Ma downstairs, and she was holding Jacob, and Stan reached out on impulse and wrapped her in his free arm, smooching her lined cheek first, pressing a kiss against his nephew's forehead second.

"Stanley, honey, what are you doing?" Ma asked, surprised.

"I love you, Ma," Stan said, ruffling the wispy fluff on top of Jacob's head. "Be good for yer grandma, kiddo."

"Stanley, what are you doing?" she asked sharply, and he turned to the door and went outside. Just rip the bandaid off. "Stanley, you're grounded, remember? You're not going to anybody's house tonight, mister-"

Stan tuned out the rest- for the best, he reminded himself on repeat, a short and frantic mantra- for the best, for the best, forthebest, forthebest-

"Hey, you knucklehead, where do you think you're going?" Ford yelled from the front door, as Stan buckled into the driver's seat. Ford came out and banged on the passengerside door, before opening it and leaning his head in. "Where do you think you're going, Stan?"

"Does it matter?" Stan repeated, and Ford's face went red.

"What are you doing, you asshole? You- you trying to ruin graduation for me now, too, is that it?"

"Ford," Stan says, starting the car. "I'm not gonna ruin anything else, ever again. Now get out of the car."

_for-the-best-for-the-best-for-the-best-for-the-best_

"You-" Ford's eye narrowed, and he finally seemed to get it.

"Fine. Fine!" he snapped, slamming the car door shut. Stan wasted no time driving as fast as he could to get away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Holy shit, Ford," Stan says, after several long moments of staring in awe and horror at the machine in the basement. "You actually... this is a joke, right?"

"No joke, Stanley," Ford says, sounding tired.

"You build a doomsday device in your basement," Stan clarifies, glancing over. Ford nods, rubbing his face with his hand. "And... okay. Ford, who else knows about this?"

"Um," Ford says. "No one."

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Stan snaps. "You trying to tell me you have an ironworks out back and that you figured out how to build all this metal shit by yourself?"

"N-no, of course not," Ford says, daring to act offended. "My former assistant knows about this, but we haven't had contact in months."

"You and some guy you haven't spoken to in months," Stan says, holding up two fingers. "Where'd you build the parts for this, Sixer?"

"That is of no concern to you!" Ford replies, holding a red book out towards Stan. "Just take this, Stanley!"

"You wrote a book?" Stan asks, glancing down at the six-fingered hand on the front cover. "Ford, seriously-"

"It contains a piece of the instructions required to operate the machine, Stan. Just..." Ford exhales noisily. "Stan, do you remember when we were kids, how we wanted to sail around the world on a boat?"

"Uh, yeah," Stan says, unable to fight the tiny flicker of warmth the memory brings.

"Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away from here as you possibly can," Ford says quickly, waving an arm. Stan's smile drops like a load of bricks.

"You're aware that I do not own a boat, Ford," Stan says, trying to remain as calm as possible.

"I'm sure someone with your... background... can find some way to procure a boat," Ford says scathingly. Stan massages the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

"Ford, I'm gonna give you a pass because you're clearly not in yer right mind at the moment," he says flatly. "You know where I'm goin' as soon as I leave here, don't you?"

"Stan, I don't- I can't possibly begin to guess-" Ford starts, and it's just too much.

"I'm going _home_ , Ford! I'm going home to Piedmont where Shermie and Jessenia and their kids live, where my family lives, _where I live_!" Stan almost throws the book back at Ford's feet; only the very last sliver of self-control he has prevents him from doing so. "I can't believe- I can't believe I almost thought you wanted to-"

Stan cuts himself off at the look on Ford's face. "You don't give a shit about me. You never did. I really was stupid to think you would now."

"I never said you were stupid-" Ford says heatedly, and Stan barks a laugh.

"No, I'm sure you used some other ten-dollar word instead, right?"

And Ford doesn't answer, and Stan laughs again.

"Some brother you turned out to be." He turns, and Ford makes a strangled little sound.

"Stanley- wait-" he says, and Stan sighs and waggles the book in one hand.

"Don't worry, Ford, I'm taking your stupid book and hiding it somewhere. Probably under my bed."

"You can't hide that under your bed," Ford says sharply, and Stan sighs.

"You're right, it's a futon. Well! Guess I'll stick it somewhere else then. Have a nice life." Stan considers the possibility of taking a nap on Ford's couch- he's exhausted, he wasn't kidding about the eighteen hour drive- and immediately dismisses it. That sounds gross. Ford's house is gross. He also dismisses the idea of just driving back like this out of hand- Shermie and the kids would never ever forgive him if he died because he tried and failed to drive in snow.

That just leaves one choice. Stan sighs, leaning against the wall next to the elevator up, and gives Ford- his pale, trembling ghost of a brother- a wry look.

"Do you know any decent motels around here?"

"No," Ford says quickly, and Stan sighs.

"Of course not, you live here but you never actually- that's fine, I'll just find something okay on TripAdvisor-"

"No, Stanley, you can't- you can't trust any of the-" Ford starts, and Stan gives him a Look. Ford swallows, making an audible clicking sound. "You're not leaving right away?"

"Yep," Stan tells him, sighing. "Ford- look. If I'm gonna get to a hotel tonight I'd better head out now, I gotta go-"

"Stan you- you could stay," Ford says tentatively, and Stan frowns at him for a moment before sighing. What the hell.

"You know what?" he mutters, taking his hair out of its ponytail to let it hang free around his shoulders. "I'm fine not payin' for a room when I'm just gonna leave in the morning anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't get visitors," Ford begins, wringing his massive hands as he shows Stan to a couch. It looks like it was cute, once, when Ford first bought it from IKEA like ten years ago, before Ford covered it in all manner of weird cuts and stains. Stan waits to see if Ford corrects the sentence and realizes heavily that he meant what he said. "I-I should have a spare duvet in the closet-"

"Ford," Stan interrupts. "That's fine, okay? I don't have any blankets in my house that weren't knitted by a ten year old. Look, I haven't had a cold winter in years, so could you maybe turn the heat up a little? Just to get it to-" Stan stops himself, because Ford's giving him that distressed-owl look he's never grown out of. Stan sighs. "Ford, look, if you're worried about being able to cover the bill-"

"I think they turned the heat off," Ford says quickly, and Stan stops and rubs his face with both hands, dislodging the faintly unfamiliar glasses from his face. "The heater hasn't, um, hasn't worked in a couple of months."

"Do you have a fireplace or a woodburning stove or-" Stan cuts himself off when he sees the expression on Ford's face, again. "Stanford, how are you living like this?" he asks finally.

"I'm fine," Ford says, quickly and full of indignation. Stan has no idea if Ford even knows how far from the truth that is.

"Okay," Stan tells him, rubbing his hands together. "I'm gonna ask you something, Ford, alright, and you gotta be honest with me."

"Wh-what about?" Ford asks, and the haunted, dogged look in his eyes tells Stan everything he needs to know about how tonight's going to go.

"Ford, you're my brother, so I'm gonna know when you're lyin' ta me," Stan says seriously, putting his hands on Ford's shoulders. "When's the last time you had halfway decent Cuban food?"

"What?" Ford asks blankly, before blinking and looking momentarily confused. "I-I don't... I don't know, Stanley, this is a very small town and I-"

"So since college," Stan supplies, and Ford blinks again.

"I... guess so? I don't recall having ever gone out for Cuban, but-"

"Are you kiddin' me? Not since you left home?" Stan asks, heaving a disappointed sigh. "Alright, that's... fine. Really? You're so close to Portland, though. I thought that was supposed to be some kinda foodie city."

"I haven't been to Portland since I moved," Ford says, sounding vaguely troubled. "Stan, what-"

"It's okay, Ford, it's fine. I'll just make you a sandwich when I make mine. You got pickles and mustard, right?" Stan asks, and Ford flounders.

"I don't know, I- I might," Ford says, and Stan pats his arm.

"We don't need pickles, we can just lie to Ma if she asks," Stan says consolingly. "You want the bread toasted up, bro?"

"Um, Lee, listen, I'm pretty sure I don't have any of the stuff to make sandwiches," Ford says, and Stan pauses and pretends like this is news to him.

"That's okay, Ford," Stan says, smiling. "It's alright. Look, if I'm gonna stay here for the night, I might as well make you dinner, right? What do you feel like havin'?"

Ford must be at least a couple days away from his last decent night's sleep, Stan thinks, because he's almost positive the struggle on Ford's face was meant to be entirely private.

"I'll just make whatever looks easiest, okay bro?" Stan asks, and Ford still looks conflicted. Stan reminds himself to be patient, that someone was patient with him once, too.

"Um, Stan, I-I don't-" Ford begins, but Stan's already headed for the small, messy kitchen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Patience was: eleven years ago, months after Stan's phone became a useless chunk of plastic because their Pops had turned off its service, Stan found himself inside a library. He was inside because it was cold and the library had heat, because none of his plans were panning out and the varsity jacket he'd grabbed on his way out was in no way suited to the weather. He was in Pennsylvania, and he'd been on his own since two weeks before he turned eighteen, and he wasn't fine but he sure as shit wasn't in such a bad place that he'd go crawling back to- not that it mattered, he reminded himself, drinking from the water fountain until his stomach was full and wiping his mouth with the back of a thin pair of gloves he'd bought in a gas station. Even if he wanted to go back his family didn't want him there, and were better off without him. So no. He wouldn't be crawling back to them anytime soon. Stan logged into his Myspace account to see if he could see what Carla was up to nowadays, that's all.

Patience was: his inbox was full of messages, all from same person, sometimes three times a day. Asking him to write back, asking him how he's doing, how he's eating, if he's okay, to please get back to him when he sees this. Seven months of messages from an unfamiliar account, but all signed the same, _your big brother_. Stan didn't know what to do about it; he spent an hour screwing around playing solitaire before he looked at the messages again.

There was a new one, sent while he was playing games. _It's been a while, but I hope you get a chance to see this soon_ , it said. _I hope you're someplace warm, Stan. I wish you could see Jacob, he's getting big and he's walking and making finger paintings. Jess swears he's going to be a great artist. I bet you'd be able to teach him a thing or two._

The rest of the message was blurry. Stan blinked hurriedly. His eyes were getting watery. It must've been the heat.

Stan typed back before he could change his mind. _Hi Sherm. I miss you guys, too. I didn't see your messages til now, I'm sorry._

The response was immediate, _How are you doing, baby brother? Where are you staying?_

Stan considered a lie. He considered telling Shermie that he wasn't doing too good, actually, that he was scared because he didn't know what he was gonna do, that every time he thought he made a friend they turned out to be... not so nice.

Stan wrote, _On the move- never boring. i love you._ Not a lie. Not the whole truth. Stan left before Shermie could write him back; got into the car and drove as far as he could on what gas he had left. Better this way, he reminded himself, wrapping himself in a short blue blanket that he stole out of a Walgreens Christmas sale a few weeks back. Better this way because now he can't ruin anything for anybody else, ever again.

 _I wish you could see Jacob_.

Stan barely slept that night, the cold a dull presence lurking in his chest, in toes he couldn't feel anymore, in the tips of his nose and ears.

Patience was: two days later, when Stan made his slinking way into another small-town library and logged into Myspace and saw a dozen new messages.  _Stan, I think you should know that Jessenia and I have moved away. We're in California now- you'd love it. We'd love it if you'd come visit._

Another:  _Stan, I can't imagine how tough it must be out there, but please know that if you need me to I'll wire you money so you can come. Just please come._

Another: _Stan, please. Jess and I got some news recently and I want you to know but I really gotta tell you in person._

Stan chewed on the side of his tongue at that, wondering what it might be. He had a little money, because he'd broken into a nice-looking car in a parking garage a town ago, stealing what cash the lady'd had, the change out of the cupholder- one eighty-six- and a hot pink scarf out of the backseat. (He assumed it was a lady. They had a pink scarf and one of those little things from Victoria's Secret that Carla'd had, the little thing that clipped onto the air vents and made the whole car smell like fancy bras and flowers or whatever.) The scarf felt like it must have cost more money than his bluejeans had, and warmed him up just enough to be painfully aware of how far he was from being comfortable.

California did sound a lot better than Pennsylvania. He wrote back, _Okay, Sherm. I'm not in California right now but i'll let u know when I'm over the state line. Don't worry about sendin me money or anything, I'm okay. I love you._

Stan used the change from the lady's car to buy himself breakfast- a can of Coke and crunchy cheetos out of the library's vending machine. He had enough for a couple tanks of gas; he'd think of something if he ran out before he got to California.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan finishes putting the entire contents of Ford's fridge and cabinets on the kitchen table, folding his arms as he takes note of the way Ford's fingers twitch, like he's itching to respond to whatever it is Stan's going to say.

Twelve cans of various ominous-looking stews and soups- Stan figures if Ford eats them plain they're a meal apiece, if he puts them on rice it's maybe enough to stretch out for two meals a day for two weeks, only Ford doesn't have any rice, and the only pot that looks like it could make rice is crusted over with something brown and tarlike. Stan picks up an opened jar of applesauce, looks at the misty green stuff inside, and gently puts the glass jar in the trash bin.

"Ford, I'm gonna make a wild guess here, it was your assistant who did most of the shopping, right?" Stan asks, and Ford blinks.

"Stanley, I lived here for six years before Fiddleford came, I-I did the shopping myself," he says, and Stan nods slowly.

"Right, but- once this guy got here, that was his job, right?" Stan presses, and Ford shrugs uncomfortably.

"I suppose."

Stan nods slowly, like as if his plan is entirely new. "Okay... okay, Ford, tell you what. We'll hit the store. That's not too far to drive, and we'll get a chance to hammer out a couple details about how tonight's gonna go. You think they might have space heaters?"

"I-I don't know, maybe," Ford says cautiously. Stan nods. He does not care if they have space heaters or not.

"Okay. We'll see if they have space heaters, then. That'll hold you over until you can call someone out to check on your heat. You and I can pick out some stuff for dinner and we'll come back here and eat. Sound good, Ford?"

"I-I shouldn't- I really can't, Stanley, I-" Ford starts, and Stan puts a hand on his arm.

"You know I can't find the store on my own in this snow, Ford," he says gently. "And even if I luck into it, I can't find my way back without you."

"Well- Stanley, maybe you shouldn't-" Ford starts, and Stan does this little thing he used to do that always put Dipper straight to sleep when he was a toddler, drawing circles on Ford's shoulder with the tip of his broad thumb.

"Stanford," Stanley says softly, in his Talking To Babies voice. "I don't know how you're managing, but I haven't slept in a cold like this since I was homeless. I don't think I could get to sleep without a little heat in here. You mind doing your baby brother a favor?"

Stan can see the moment Ford's resolve slips. Playing dirty has always worked for the Pines brothers.

"Well... alright, Stan, if... if you insist." Stan smiles a little.

"Take as much of a shower as you can stand and get dressed to go, Ford. I'll put this stuff away."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Shermie and Jess hadn't said anything about how he looked when Stan eventually showed up, two days before Valentines' Day. They'd bullied him into taking a shower and made him a little bed in Jacob's room, right next to the little racecar bed. They'd said they were glad to finally get some time alone, won't Stan be a dear and watch Jacob for them, it'd be the first private time they'd get in a year if he could, please. Shermie barely waited until Stan was clean and dressed in his least-dirty shirt and jeans before he gave Stan a receipt and a five-dollar bill to tip the pizza guy, and thanked him for watching Jacob. Stan didn't quite understand how his big brother could be so desperate for a babysitter that he'd call on his weird, drifter little brother from another state, but-

-Jacob waggled bodily against Stan and his big brown eyes lit up with recognition and he cried out, "Tan!" and that was the end of Stan's thought processes for a while. He'd forgotten how much he loved being the center of his little nephew's attention. (If he ever stopped to really think about it, he might have wondered how a two year old would even really remember someone he hadn't seen for nearly eight months, but as it was, it never occurred to Stan that Shermie would stoop so low as to show his baby pictures of Stan and say his name until the baby knew his face by heart.)

Stan wore himself out picking Jacob up and putting him back down on demand- when the pizza finally came Stan wolfed half of it down, unsure of whether Jacob was supposed to be eating pepperoni and cheese but seeing no real reason not to let him gum a couple slices into oblivion. When Jacob started fussing a little, Stan picked him up and made soothing noises and eventually the toddler plopped his head down on Stan's chest and stuck his arms straight down and fell asleep. Stan tried to ease him down onto the racecar bed, but Jacob's hands grabbed at his shirt and he made an Upset Baby noise, so Stan stayed down, twisting himself into a shape small enough to fit on the racecar.

The next thing he knew, he was soaking wet and Jessenia was gently shaking his shoulder, beaming.

"Looks like he leaked through his diaper, Stan. Sorry you got peed on," she said, and Stan had blinked.

"He's still wearing diapers?" he asked, and she'd bitten her lip and put her hand on top of Stan's head.

"Sweetie, we can't let you leave wearing peepee clothes," she told him, "you'd better take another shower and borrow some of Sherm's clothing until your stuff comes out of the wash."

Staying a few hours had become staying the weekend- obviously, Shermie had explained. It's Valentines Day. A weekend turned into a week or two, just until things got settled, because the thing Shermie had been waiting to tell Stan was that Jess was pregnant again- and then Stan had panicked and left. What was he doing? He- he couldn't do this to Shermie and Jess and Jacob. He couldn't do this to little Mystery Pines. They had a whole life that Stan was just going to fuck up, like he fucked everything up.

Only... only Shermie found Stan, because he'd only driven to the nearest playground in the neighborhood, and he had sat down next to Stan and said _here, take this,_ and handed Stan a little phone.

"We just want to be able to call you when we need you, Stan," Shermie had said, and Stan had nodded, could accept this.

Only Shermie called every day, and sometimes Jess called, too, and both of them would put Jacob on the phone for Stan, and Stan found out that it was hard to steal stuff when he wanted to stay in a city long term, and it was hard to turn Jess down when she asked Stan to come take their leftovers so they wouldn't take up so much room in the fridge, and it never occurred to Stan to ask how come it was always stuff that kept okay out of the fridge.

Only a little under a month after he came to California Shermie begged Stan to come over for a couple nights, and told him that they'd just found out that day that Jessica was going to have twins. Stan had been so excited that he'd leaned in close and yelled at Jessenia's abdomen, telling the little twins to hurry up so they could meet their family.

Stan almost hadn't noticed what Shermie was doing over the next seven months. He stayed with his brother and sister-in-law more often than not, and they let him use their address to apply for jobs, and they included him in their family pictures and on holidays. They gave him stuff he really needed on his nineteenth birthday, but Shermie had also made Stan a chocolate cake and took him out to see a movie, just the two of them. (Batman Begins, which- wow, what a movie. Stan hadn't ever really thought Batman would be badass before, but- gosh. That Christian Bale was pretty, uh, pretty cool. If Shermie thought anything about the way Stan wouldn't shut up about how cool Christian Bale was, he never said anything.)

They let Stan sit with Shermie, holding his hand and cradling Jacob to his chest, when Jess started feeling bad and ended up in the hospital before her due date, and when the doctors rushed Shermie to be in the room with Jess Stan took care of Jacob and held the little guy- a little over three now- to his chest.

When they finally brought Stan in to meet the twins, he pressed his face and hands against the incubators and watched them wiggle around and felt like his heart was going to explode.

Ford came, just a day after Jessica and the twins came home, and Ma and Pa were with him. Jessenia and Shermie looked just as startled as Stan that they'd showed up like that, out of nowhere, but-

-but Stan felt a heavy weight settle into place as Ford glanced over at him, mouth set in a grim line, and said, "Hello, Stanley." Ma hadn't said anything to him yet, had scooped Jacob up in her arms and was showering him with smooches, but Pa hadn't even bothered looking in Stan's direction.

"Hello, Stanford," Stan had said, too tired from the past few days to think of anything clever.

Because. He wasn't. Stan wasn't clever. He wasn't smart. He wasn't even particularly _good_. It was better for everyone when he wasn't taking up so much of his family's time and- and energy and resources, he remembered, and it almost felt true. He left everything he owned in Shermie's house, because if he went in there to get it he'd get- roped into helping, like that could make up for everything he did to his parents and to Ford and to the way he's been taking advantage of Sherm and Jess and- and his fingers shook when he put his keys in the car door but nobody came out to stop him this time.

Stan drove away before anyone could pressure him into staying for dinner and turned his phone off when it started ringing. Better this way, he reminded himself.

He didn't see Ford for more than ten years after that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"You're driving very slowly, Stanley," Ford mutters, and Stan hums at him, tuning the radio to something gentle and pleasant- that old-timey stuff always used to put Ford straight to sleep as a kid, and he finds a decent station playing fifties-and-sixties. "You, uh, you used to drive faster."

"I also didn't used to be afraid of wrapping my car around a tree, Ford, but we all get older," Stan says, rolling his eyes.

"I suppose you're right," Ford says softly, shifting in the passengerside.

"You warm enough over there, Ford? I can turn it up if ya want," Stan offers, and Ford shakes his head slowly.

"It's already quite warm."

The heat's on full blast, but Stan surrepticiously nudges the air vents so that they're pointed a little more toward Ford anyway. Bobby Darin starts singing on the radio, and Ford's eyes start to droop as they drive through the snow.

Stan has to work hard to keep the smug grin off his face. He's done duty putting two squalling, teething twins to sleep; Ford never stood a chance.

He waits until Ford is really, truly asleep before he heads for the interstate and starts driving southward.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been over four hours since Ford fell asleep, and Stan's... starting to feel bad. Not about kidnapping Ford, but about the fact that he's been driving for... most of the past 36 hours. He would have _liked_ a nap, but, well, he's been drinking coffee and coke all night instead. He even grabbed a coffee to sip at while his sandwiches were being made, and finished it up just as he called Shermie up.

"You missed your phone call last night," Shermie's saying over the phone. "The kids are all pretty mad at you."

"I'll make it up to them," Stan says hopefully, stuffing extra napkins and salt packets into his to-go bag.

"I'm pretty mad at you, too," Shermie says evenly, and Stan clears his throat.

"I'll make it up to you, too, Sherm, I'm making it up right now," he says. Shermie sighs.

"Stan, listen, Jess and I would be really, really happy if you started doing stuff with friends or seeing somebody, you know? We just need a little bit of forewarning if the the kids' routine is going to change." Stan winces- he hadn't really thought about it before now, but yeah, neither Dipper nor Mabel do very well with unplanned deviations from their schedule, especially at night when they're all wound up from the day. Jacob is better about changes than the twins are, but he has a hard time with how loud they can get when they're upset. Stan tries and almost succeeds in swallowing back the feeling that he's fucked things up, that he's fucked _everything_ up.

"I'm- Shermie, I'm really sorry," Stan says in a small voice, and Shermie sighs at him.

"It's fine, Stan, the kids are asleep. So what happened?"

"It's- It's Ford, he said he needed me to come up to Oregon," Stan says, and Shermie makes a surprised noise.

"Stanford's talking to you now? That's great, Stan," he says, and Stan nods as he walks out into the brisk winter air. "Can I talk to him?"

"He's asleep right now," Stan says proudly. Shermie pauses for a moment.

"And you're... in Oregon already?"

"Oh, no, we're in Redding, we're on our way to Piedmont," Stan says, digging in his pocket for his keys. Shermie considers this.

"Well, okay, Stan. But you're going to stop in on me and Jessenia before you get to your place, alright?"

"Okay, brobro," Stan says agreeably. "Love ya, Sherm."

"Love ya too, Stan."

Stan gets into the Stanleymobile and watches Ford sleep for a minute or two, before he takes out a white paper-wrapped sandwich and starts gently ramming it against Ford's cheek and the side of his nose.

"Nngghh," Ford groans, swatting weakly at the sandwich.

"Meester Stanford," Stan singsongs in his goofiest 'Mr. Tummy' voice. "Meester Stanfooooord, wakey-wakeeeyy."

"Cudditout," Ford mutters, shifting in the seat. Stan starts rubbing the sandwich against Ford's face.

"Medianooocheeee, Meester Stanford," Stan insists. "Meester Staaaaa-"

"God _dammit_ , Stan!" Ford snaps, shoving Stan's arm away. He sits up with another slightly pained groan, rubbing his forehead. "What are you harassing me with, some kind of-"

"Hot fresh medianoche, Ford," Stan says invitingly, and Ford peeks one eye at him, before taking the sandwich carefully.

"Thank you, Stan. I had no idea a Cuban place opened up near me," he says, unwrapping the paper and inhaling the scent of the hot, fresh sandwich. "I'm famished."

"I know," Stan says cheerfully, taking a big bite of his own medianoche before turning the car on and pulling out of the parking lot. They eat in silence for approximately five minutes before Ford inhales sharply.

"Stan, how long have we been out of the house?" he asks, putting the sandwich down.

"Mm?" Stan asks innocently, pretending his mouth's too full to talk.

"Stan, where are we?" Ford asks urgently. Stan swallows.

"Redding," he answers, juggling the sandwich and the wheel. "Hey, I got us some of that good bottled green tea, can you open mine? It's in the ba-"

"Redding is in _California_!" Ford explodes. "What the fuck are we doing in California, Stan?"

"Taking you to meet your niece and nephew, for starters," Stan says, glancing coolly to the side. "They're ten, Ford! You can't keep avoidin' the kids-"

"Stanley-"

"-you can't keep avoidin' yer _family_ , Ford-"

"I'm not avoiding my family, Stanley, I'm avoiding _you_!"

The silence for the next few minutes is ice cold.

"You should probably have waited until after you got me to do your little chore to have said that," Stan says reflectively.

"Stan, that's- that's not what it sounded like-"

"It doesn't matter, Ford, I know what you meant," Stan says ruthlessly. "You think I don't know that you think I'm just some worthless bum? You don't think I've always known you think I'm trash?"

"Stan-"

"Well you know what? For once in your life, you're wrong," Stan continues, eyes straight ahead and focused brutally on the road. "I'm not _nothing_ -"

"Stan, I've never thought you were trash," Ford says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And I've been wrong about... so much, in the last few years, Stan."

Stan drives in silence, his jaw set as the headlights of passing cars wash over them. After a while he glances over at his brother, the sandwich sitting in his lap.

"Eat before it goes cold," he mutters.

"Stan, I have to get back to Gravity Falls," Ford says, and Stan exhales noisily through his nose. He's tired. His head hurts. He's too tired for this right now, but he doesn't have anybody else to help Ford out tonight. It has to be him.

"I'll buy you a bus ticket back, then. I'm going home."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan pulled up to the elementary school in the Stanleymobile, beaming at Jacob and the twins as they bundled into the car- Jacob up front because he's ten and a big boy now, Dipper and Mabel in their booster seats in the back.

"How was school, munchkins?" he asked, and Jacob coughed.

"Ask'em how their pictures went," the kid said loudly. Dipper and Mabel squirmed in their seats.

"Hmm, you guys wanna tell your Uncle Stan how your picture day went?" Stan asked cautiously.

"Well-"

"There was a really mean girl," Dipper said earnestly. "She put gum in Mabel's hair!"

"Aw, no," Stan sighed in sympathy. "Well, don't worry, pumpkin, I got a recipe for gettin' gum outta long hair like ours. At least you've got picture retakes in a couple'a weeks," he added consolingly.

"Um," Dipper said, bright red.

"What if you don't gotta get the gum out of my hair?" Mabel asked brightly.

"I mean, if it's been in your hair all day long it's probably pretty stuck, sweetie-" Stan started. The twins both pulled their knit caps off, revealing huge clean-shaven patches. " _Sweet Moses_!"

"I told ya," Jacob said to no one in particular. Stan hummed and pulled in to Shermie's house- while they were away Shermie and Jessenia wanted Stan to stay with the kids in the house so things wouldn't have to be too different.

"Uncle Stan, are you mad?" Dipper asked softly.

"I'm not mad," Stan said quickly. "Just, you know. Processing." He hesitated, glancing at Jacob. "You... didn't also do that, did you?"

"No, and I'm not gonna," Jacob says, as if it's obvious. Stan nodded, helping the kids out of the car and up the front steps into the house.

"Okay, okay, good, I'll- I'll figure out how to tell your folks," he said, faking confidence. It would be easy. Simple. He'd- he'd just tell Shermie and Jess. What were they gonna do? What- what's the _worst_ they could do?

Stan made his famous Stancaroni and Cheese for dinner on autopilot, helped the kids with their homework- thanking Bunyan the three of them were still young enough that he wasn't too dumb to do that, at least- and trying to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable conversation with their parents. At least Shermie and Jessenia are coming home today, Stan thought, picking at his food, because if he had to wait too long before the eventual fallout he'd lose his damn mind. He helped Jacob get set up with a book in his bedroom- well, two books, because Jacob liked reading and that Diary of a Wimpy Kid was pretty darn cute.

Dipper and Mabel must have picked up on his nerves, though, because instead of making him read something they were sitting up in Dipper's bed with the big leatherbound hardcover Art of Thor art book Stan'd given them for their joint birthday gift that year. Stan was extremely grateful to them both, letting them snuggle up against his sides as he flipped pages idly, letting them soak in the detailed drawings and paintings as much as they wanted before turning to the next page.

It was Jessenia who woke Stan up, the light flicking on a little after one.

"Hey, Stan," she said with a tired smile. "I knew I'd find you in here-"

She paused, and Stan tensed, carefully extricating himself from the sleeping twins.

"Stan, what happened to the kids' hair?" she asked. Stan took a deep breath.

"Okay. Don't be mad," he said, glancing skittishly at the kids. "Don't be mad at the kids. It's- okay, see, it's a- it's a funny story, kinda-"

"Stan, did you... shave the kids' heads?" Jess asked slowly, blinking. Stan shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, looking down.

"Um, no, but, listen, it's not their faults, they- there was a mean girl!" Stan added quickly.

"Hey, what- what's goin' on, guys?" Shermie asked, and Stan's stomach clenched- he'd been hoping to have this conversation with _just_ Jessenia.

"The kids' heads got shaved," Jess said slowly.

"N-not all the way! Just, you know, just- just a little," Stan interjected. Shermie and Jess exchanged glances at one another.

"So how did their heads get just a little shaved?" Shermie asked, looking baffled on top of exhausted.

"Hey, you know, it's- you remember what I was like, right, Sherm? It's just- so there was a gum incident and the kids thought- I mean, it was picture day today, too, and- and anyway don't be mad at them," Stan said, all in a rush. Shermie and Jessica were both quiet for a few seconds.

"There was a gum incident?" Shermie clarified.

"Oh, is- is that what you meant by there being a mean girl?" Jess added, and Stan nodded.

"So look, I mean, they're young, they got, you know, they got upset, I guess they had an electric razor with'em, don't be mad at'em, they were just-" Stan continued, and Shermie gently cut him off.

"Stan, we're not mad at the kids, right honey?"

"Of course not, Stan. It's just hair," Jessenia said, and Stan felt some of the horrible tightness in his chest and gut loosen.

"Okay," Stan said, swallowing. "Okay. I'll just- I'll get out of your-" Stan paused, trying to find another, less hair-related idiom.

"Um, Stan," Shermie said, sounding confused. "You're... you don't want to stick around?"

"I-" Stan looked up, blinking. "I-I mean... I would, but-"

"But what?" Shermie asked. "I mean, you're here already, it's late, you could-"

"But you're pissed at me," Stan said, looking between the two of them with an increasing sense of panic. "I fucked up and- and you're-"

"I'm too tired for this," Shermie said quietly, and Stan winced. "Jess, can you... handle this?"

"Stan, sweetie," Jess said, and Stan prepared himself as she pulled him into the living room. He could- he could do okay, he reasoned, it would kill him to not be allowed to see the kids but he could- he could- he could sneak around like a goddamn creep, maybe, although that- that might be illegal, he wasn't sure, and he thought he'd chance it but he didn't think he'd be able to get Shermie to represent him in court again if Shermie's the one pressing charges this time. Maybe he could scam Shermie and Jess into letting him be around once in a while? Wait, no, that would never work, Shermie knew all his tricks. Maybe he could write the kids letters. Coded letters? That sounded hard but it was right up Ford's alley- Ford had started writing a little more ever since he moved to Oregon after college, maybe Ford would help- oh, wait, no, Ford wouldn't, because Ford hated him, just like Shermie and Jessenia hated him now, and Stan wouldn't get to talk to Jacob or Dipper or Mabel ever again because he was too stupid to learn how to write things in code-

"Stan," Jessenia repeated, guiding his elbow until he was sitting on the edge of the couch. "Where are you right now, hon?"

"I-" Stan started, and then his resolve broke. There was no sneaking around this. There was no scamming his way out of this. He was going to lose the only family he had left because he was stupid. "Don't- you can't not let me see them, you can't keep me away from the kids," he pleaded, his knuckles white as he clutched at the couch cushion.

"What?" Jess asked slowly, and when Stan looked up at her she was blinking.

"Please," Stan said. "Just- I know I fucked up but I can do better, I-I can be-"

"Sweetheart, of course we're not going to keep you from the kids," Jess said softly, reaching over to awkwardly pat his hand on the knuckles. "The kids love you, Stan. We love you."

"But why? I- you left'em with me and I fucked up," he blurted, unable to stand it. "You- you just- I fucked it up! How are you not pissed right now?"

Stan gaped at her, and she put her hand over her mouth, thinking for a few minutes.

"Stan," she said finally, "everybody fucks up. You've been a part of the kids's lives forever. Do you- did you think this would be all it took to lose us? Stan, the kids are happy and healthy and safe, that's all we could ever want."

She reached out to touch his shoulder again, and he just sat, trying to reshuffle all the different scenarios he'd been expecting to include this one, where- where they weren't mad that he let their kids fuck their hair up and ruin picture day, where they didn't decide this time that he wasn't good enough to be around Jacob and the twins without supervision.

"Stan, do you want Shermie to make up the guest room for you?" Jess asked softly.

"You're not mad at me or the twins?" Stan asked finally, and she shook her head.

"Even though I'm- even though I-" Stan couldn't figure out how to say it, and she shook her head again, squeezing his shoulder.

"Trust me, Stan. In the morning we're gonna think the whole thing's funny," she said, and the way she said it, he could... he could maybe believe it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Stan," Ford says suddenly, and Stan jumps, swerving onto the shoulder for a few seconds before he jerks the wheel back into position. "Stan, you're falling asleep."

"No'm not," Stan says quickly, heart pounding.

"You just nodded off while driving!" Ford snaps. "Pull over before you get us both killed."

"I had coffee," Stan says stubbornly, looking around for an exit. "We're... we're only... lessee, we left Redding what, an hour ago, hour'n'a half-"

"We left Redding ten minutes ago," Ford says, and Stan blinks over at him, down at the half-eaten sandwich in his own lap.

"Let me drive," Ford tells him. Stan shakes himself a little.

"Nah. Nah. You'll- you'll drive me back to Oregon and then I'll get fired," Stan mutters, and Ford sighs.

"I won't drive back to Oregon, Stanley," he says, and Stan huffs, taking an exit. Ford drums his fingers against the dashboard, frowning slightly. "Stanley, it's been less than thirty-six hours since I asked you to go to Gravity Falls."

"Yeah, I know," Stan grumbles, blinking blearily at signs until he pulls in to a gas station that looks mostly abandoned, although it's attached to a well-lit McDonald's.

"So when did you sleep in that time?" Ford asks, and Stan parks the car and tucks the keys  into his left pocket, handing Ford a couple of five dollar bills.

"Right now," Stan says, blinking at him. "Right now is when I sleeped in that time."

"Stan- _slept_ ," Ford says, sounding pained. "What is this money for?"

"If it looks like someone's going to bother us, go in and buy us coffees," Stan instructs, putting the seat back and closing his eyes. "Just play on your phone for an hour while I'm napping, Ford."

"I destroyed my phone," Ford says sullenly, and Stan grunts at him.

"Wake me up in an hour, Ford. Love ya," Stan says, but softly, and he's too close to sleep to hear Ford's response.


	4. Chapter 4

Stan wakes up cold and stiff and blinking at the weak, grayed-out morning light. He checks his phone; it's a little after 5:45am and he's been sleeping for a little over five hours.

Stanford is next to him, sleeping with an open book of crossword puzzles on his lap and a cold paper cup of coffee in the cupholder. Both look like Ford got them in the gas station at some point; the crossword's open to a page a quarter of the way through. Stan silently picks up the cup and the trash from the sandwiches and eases himself out of the car, heading for the trash bin at the corner of the parking lot. Ford's still sleeping when Stan gets in and shuts the car door.

Stan watches him sleep for a few minutes, because- because he's an asshole, but his life wasn't any easier than Stan's growing up, and even if he doesn't like Stan anymore he loved him once, and according to Shermie and Jessica and Stan's therapist and every single one of the kids' storybooks, that doesn't just go away.

Ford needs this family, Stan thinks. The softness of the kids, their light, their trust. The strength of Shermie and Jess, the best big brother and big-sister-by-marriage anybody could ask for. Ford needs them more than Stan does; from the looks of it, he thinks, Ford's needed them a lot more and for a long, long time. Impulsively, Stan rakes his hand through the curls on the top of Ford's head, quickly drawing his hand back as if expecting Ford to bite it off.

Ford doesn't move. Stan breathes a sigh of relief, reaches back over to pluck the glasses off Ford's face so he doesn't-

-Stan pauses. Ford's not moving. Ford hasn't _been_ moving.

"Ford, wake up," Stan says, and he doesn't. Stan presses his hand against Ford's face and it's cold, and Stan starts panicking.

"No, no, come on, Ford, no, wake up," he says, and he hates the soft whine in his own voice and Ford's welcome to roast him for it but he just needs to wake up now, please. Stan grabs his shoulder and shakes it until Ford's head flops forward. Stan's breath hitches in a sob. "Ford, come on, please. Please, I-I just got you back, you can't, you can't-"

A cold hand snatches Stan by the wrist, and Ford's eyes open wide, the warm chocolate brown of his eyes turned a lurid amber-gold.

"Wow, I didn't expect you to start _crying_ , Ponytail!"

"What in the actual fuck, Ford?!" Stan cries, trying to pull back, but Ford's- Ford's stronger than he looks, for being such a skinny, unhealthy-lookin' guy. Stan takes it back about Ford being welcome to roast him. "You asshole, I thought- I thought you were-"

"Dead? Shuffling off this mortal coil? Becoming one with the upholstery?" Ford grins, wide and manic, and still refuses to let go of Stan's wrist. "That would be pretty hard to explain, right? How the family fuckup kidnapped the twin he'd always been jealous of and then killed him?"

"Ford!" Stan snaps, shoving him back against the car door. "What the hell is _with_ you?"

"Careful with the goods, Ponytail, it may be a run-down rickety meatsack, but it's _my_ run-down rickety meatsack!" Ford's fingertips dig cruelly into the flesh of Stan's wrist, and his grip tightens the more Stan struggles to free himself. "So what is this, huh? You really think anybody'll be impressed at whatever it is you think you're trying to accomplish?"

"Ford, I swear, if you don't stop-" Stan starts, and Ford laughs, high-pitched and strained.

"Oh, you'll what? Leave me here in the middle of nowhere in mid-February? Run off an' abandon me like you did in high school?"

"That's not what happened, that's not how that happened!" Stan snaps, and Ford laughs again, his eyes wet.

"Are you sure? Because to my eye it looks like you were the one drivin' off, pal!" Ford pulls him closer, lips curled in a sneer, his breath smelling like cheap, stale coffee. "You know, you should've left me in Gravity Falls when it turned out you were just as useless now as you were then, buddy-"

"Ford, shut up," Stan grits out, his back and shoulders already aching from the unnatural angle Ford's got him in.

"One tiny little job and you could've done the only worthwhile thing you've ever done in your misbegotten life," Ford snarls, his smile showing all of his teeth. "Nobody could believe it, you know. You lived your entire life draggin' on my coattails, draggin' me down-"

"Let go of me, Ford," Stan says, reminding himself: patience, patience, you got patience, give him patience.

"-and instead'a doin' the right thing for once, you turned around and started dragging Sherman's family down, like the scumsucker you are! You said you wouldn't ruin anything else, and yet here you are, making a mess that everybody else has to deal with... If you'd had any brains you would've run this car off a bridge at seventeen, at least we could've pretended you'd had a shred of dignity if you'd died in an 'accident,' at least you wouldn't have been around to ruin my one shot at getting into a decent school, but _no_ ," Ford shoves him back, finally releasing his wrist. "You know what, I'm hitching back home, I can't spend another minute lookin' at you, where's that journal I gave ya?"

"F-fuck you, Ford," Stan breathes out, hugging his arm to his chest. "I'm not-"

"Okay, fine," Ford says brightly. "You don't wanna give it to me? I don't _have_ to let you leave with the car, idiot." He grabs Stan's shirt and headbutts him in the face, and Stan feels something in his nose crunch, realizes it's his spare glasses breaking across the bridge of his nose when the lenses fall into his lap with a clatter.

"You motherfucker," Stan swears, swinging his only available fist and accomplishing what Ford's move failed to do, knocking his brother out cold. Only after Ford slumps in his seat does Stan notice the fresh blood trickling from the corner of one eye.

Stan sits in the driver's side, shaking and trying to make sense of what's just happened, for nearly a minute before he realizes that Ford's probably going to wake back up any minute now-

-unless he's dead, unless he really is dead this time-

-Ford shifts, lets out a soft little breath, but- but he's, Stan guesses, sleeping again. Which is... bad if he has a concussion, Stan's pretty sure, and maybe he gave himself a concussion but if he has a concussion it's probably that Stan gave him one. Stan grabs his wallet, his phone, and his keys, retreating to the gas station before Ford can wake up again. He grabs himself a coke and, after a moment's pause, grabs a roll of duct tape, too. It doesn't occur to Stan what he must look like until the station attendant gives him a narrow-eyed onceover and he realizes that he's dishevelled and bleary-eyed, bleeding freely from the nose and wrist and looking generally like a lowlife.

"Howdy," Stan says, taking his change and his receipt before the guy can say anything.

It's maybe half an hour- Stan's not even half done with his coke but he kept spilling it on himself- before Ford wakes up again with a groan.

"Ugghh, Stanley, what-" he starts, before he notices that his arms are taped down against his sides and his hands are taped together. " _Stanley!_ What is the meaning of-"

He stops when Stan glances over to see if he's getting a hand free, his jaw dropping as Stan breathes a tiny sigh of relief. "Stanley, your _face_ , what- what happened to-"

"Please stop talking," Stan says, and he's proud of himself that his voice doesn't tremble at all. "Just... stop. You made your point. I mean, no, I'm not driving you back to your hoarder-nest hellhole of a house, but you... you made your point."

"Stanley, you're not wearing your glasses, can you even see to drive-" Ford asks, and his voice is shaking, like Stan's the one who hurt him-

Well, Stan _is_ the one who hurt him, Stan reminds himself dully.

"If you wanted me to wear my glasses you shouldn't'a broke'em," he says quietly.

"No," Ford says softly, struggling to sit up. "No. Stanley- I didn't, it wasn't me-"

"Ford, stop," Stan says, feeling tired. "Look, I meant what I said, I'll drop you off at Sherm's and I'll get the money for bus fare to you and... and you won't have to worry about me fucking things up again, just-"

"You do not understand, Stanley!" Ford says loudly, shaking his head. "An extradimensional being of pure energy did those things and- and said those things to you, whatever it is you're talking about, using my body as a vessel-"

"Can you listen to yourself for a minute, Ford?" Stan interrupts, barking a dry little laugh that hurts his chest to make. "Makin' excuses and blamin' other people for stuff, you're startin' to sound like me there."

"Stan, please, it wasn't me, it was Bill," Ford says, and Stan glances over at him again. "Stan, look at me. Did he- the other me, did he sound like me, did he act like me? No, see, because it's a different person, he hijacked my body as a means of tormenting-"

"Of course he sounded and acted like you," Stan says, and Ford shuts up, blinking. "Ford, I don't- I don't know if you're on whatever weird street drugs you find in small-town Oregon, I don't know if you really do think I'd leave you in the middle of nowhere after what you said, but..." Stan rolls his sore shoulders, sighing. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't have said that stuff if you didn't think it, so just... take it easy. It's nothing I haven't already realized."

"Stan, what did he do? What did he say?" Ford asks quietly. "Please- it wasn't-"

"You were right, Ford," Stan says, scratching idly at the six small half-moon scabs forming on his wrist until they're raw and oozing again. "It would have been better for everybody if I had taken a long drive off the pier before I broke your project. I know that. I just... I've been trying to fix shit ever since."

"Lee," Ford breathes out, shutting his eyes. "Lee, I- I-I wouldn't have said that. I didn't say that. Please, please believe me-"

"You've got to stop yourself, Ford, I'm not gonna do anything drastic," Stan says dully. "I'll... I'll get you to Sherm's. He'll fix you up. He's good at takin' care of people. Him and Jess-"

"I would _never say_ -"

"You gotta be good to the kids, they remind me of you, but- I mean- the good stuff, obviously," Stan continues. "They're so.... they're all so smart and talented and good, Ford. They'll be good for you, you just gotta let'em be themselves, okay?"

"Stanley Pines, you listen to me for one minute!" Ford snaps. "I know how it- how it must have looked and sounded, alright? An energy being named Bill has unfettered access to my mind and body and was using me as a puppet. I can prove it, you just need to let me out of these confounded restraints! When I say it wasn't me, I mean it wasn't me, and he wasn't saying anything that I've ever said or thought because Bill lies and manipulates and is doing this on purpose to get you away from me, Stanley!"

Stan is quiet for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the wheel for a while before he sighs again.

"Okay, Ford, I just... I don't know why you want to play this game, I don't know, just... look, fine. I'll play along, alright? So it wasn't you. It was this... guy named Bill."

"It's not a game, Stanley, and yes, his name is Bill," Ford says desperately.

"So this Bill guy, some... sort of... I dunno, some kind of spirit or-"

"Dream demon," Ford supplies. Stan bites down on his tongue before he can say something nasty.

"So you got this dream demon who can just wear you like a man-suit," Stan says eventually. "How come?"

"I... that detail isn't import-" Ford starts, and Stan rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter, Stan. What matters is-"

"The first worthwhile thing I'd do in my entire misbegotten life," Stan quotes, and Ford stares at him. "Right. Well, I said I was gonna do it, so-"

"Stanley," Ford interrupts. "That's- that's not true. You have done- you do worthwhile things-"

"It's like you said, Ford," Stan shrugs. "I'm the family fuckup."

" _Bill's_ the one who-"

"Just be quiet, please," Stan says. "Just-"

"Cool Stuff According to Mabel and Princess Sparklecastle," Ford cries out. "Dipper's Guide To the Unexplained. Monster Jake's Makeup Tutorials."

Stan blinks over at him. "You... know about my youtube channel."

"I'm _subscribed_ to your youtube channel," Ford says miserably. Stan considers this for a few minutes.

"PolydacTesla86," he says slowly, and Ford hangs his head. "I honestly should have seen that one. You're... you're one of the regular commenters. We were wondering why you hadn't said much the past few months-"

"It's because Bill's been making my life a living hell, Stanley," Ford says.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Stan asks, and Ford gives a soft, sobbing laugh.

"The four of you are so... happy. Your videos look fun. I knew that if you knew it was me, you'd- I didn't... I didn't want you to stop making them, Stan." The car is quiet for a few minutes. "Stan, I thought... I thought the only kind of person who'd understand, who'd _want_ to understand me, would have to be someone like me, some embittered intellectual outcast. I went looking for knowledge and I met... I met exactly who I thought I should meet. And at first I thought he was my friend, my muse, my soulm-"

Ford cuts himself off, looking out the window.

"I thought he was the best friend a freak like me could have, and at first I was scared that he'd choose you over me, and then after... after I realized what a monster he was, after I tried to end our partnership, he used to threaten the people I care about- he used to threaten you- and I thought that if I could keep you away from him, you'd be safe, safe enough, and-"

"Oh, Ford," Stan sighs, massaging the bruised bridge of his nose. It makes sense- well, more sense, now. Not that there's some sort of literal dream demon, but... heck, Stan's been wrecked up after breakups, and if this guy was the first person Ford had ever really opened up to, of course it'll have been terrible for him. Some of Ford's earlier comments start to make sense- if some asshole's been stalking Ford and harassing him over the phone, that would explain at least several of the issues Ford clearly has. Stan makes a mental note to tell Shermie to break out his heavy-duty lawyering so they can try to stick this guy behind bars for fucking with their brother.

Ford's looking at him with a pathetic expression that makes a deep, dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of Stan's gut.

"You see now?" Ford asks hopefully. "Stanley, I- please. You have to believe me now, don't you?"

Stan forces a small, thinlipped smile. "Tell you what... if you can help me keep awake until we get to Piedmont, you and me and Sherm, we'll figure this whole mess out, okay? This Bill asshole's gonna regret messing with the Pineses."

Ford blinks. "Stan you- you really don't-?"

"Huh?"

"Stan, do you believe me?" Ford asks. "About- about the fact that Bill's a demon."

"I mean... he seems like a pretty terrible person," Stan admits. "Maybe not a-"

"My eyes!" Ford shouts, and Stan almost jerks the Stanleymobile into a passing minivan.

"Jeez, Stanford, try not to scare me to death!" Stan yelps.

"What color are my eyes, Stan?" Ford demands.

"Brooowwwn," Stan sighs, squinting at a sign for an exit.

"What color were my eyes when this was all happening, Stan?"

Stan chews on his lower lip. "I... dunno, kind of a lightish-"

"Yellow," Ford says fervently. "They were yellow, weren't they? And my eye started bleeding, right? My right eye?"

"I-I mean, I did hit you pretty hard," Stan admits guiltily, and Ford sighs noisily.

"Yes, Stanley, I noticed." Stan glances over and winces a little. Ford makes an impatient noise at him. "That's not- that's not the point, Stanley. When Bill takes control of my body there are physiological changes. My heartrate drops, my breathing slows down, my-"

"You were cold," Stan says slowly, frowning. "That's... you weren't moving or breathing and you were so cold that I thought you'd died or something."

They're quiet for a few minutes, as the highway starts filling up a little.

"You promise you're not... making it up," Stan says quietly.

" _Yes_ , Stanley," Ford says.

"Bill's not some kind of vengeful ex-boyfriend who's trying to ruin your life," Stan adds.

"He... kind of is, but he's also a dream demon and he's trying to ruin my life by keeping you out of it," Ford says urgently. "Also he's trying to destroy the world."

"Ah. Doomsday device in your basement sort of makes a little more sense now," Stan says thoughtfully. "I mean, not a whole hell of a lot of sense, but _some_ sense."

"I honestly didn't know it was a doomsday device at the time," Ford says sulkily.

"I don't see why you'd think I'd be reassured by that statement, but I'm not," Stan tells him. "Okay. Okay. Cool. So here's- here's the plan. We grab breakfast, we get to Shermie's house around lunch, we... we figure out the problem of you being, uh, possessed I guess."

"And then I have to get back to Gravity Falls so I can fix the portal generator to prevent it being used to destroy reality," Ford adds.

"Aaaand yeah, okay, that." Stan breathes out, nervously drumming his hands against the steering wheel. "And make sure you don't hermit yourself away from Shermie and Jessica and the kids again."

"Stan, I-" Ford makes a small noise that Stan can't interpret. "Stan, I'm not really... good with children, don't you think?"

"Well, you've never been arrested, so you have that going for you," Stan offers.

"You've been arrested?" Ford asks, sounding mildly shocked and a little offended, and Stan laughs again.

"Yeah, well... yes. So hey, you're already a better influence on the kids than I am."

Ford's forehead thunks softly against the window as he seems to consider this. Finally, he asks, "Okay, what were you arrested for?"

"Why don't you put that big noggin a'yours to work and guess," Stan suggests. "If you can guess before we get to Shermie's I'll tell you the whole story."

"Challenge accepted," Ford says automatically, and despite everything Stan almost smiles.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time they're driving into Shermie's neighborhood Ford hasn't managed to guess what Stan was arrested for. It's not until they're parked in the driveway that Stan and Ford both seem to realize that Ford can't possibly wrangle himself out of the car with the way Stan'd restrained him, and that Stan doesn't have a knife or scissors or anything near sharp enough to cut Ford free. At least it's midday and the kids are all at school, Stan thinks, because this would absolutely be a terrible and awkward way for the kids to finally meet their uncle.

Stan reassures himself with that train of thought all the way up until he knocks on the front door and hears Jacob call out that he'll get it. It dawns on Stan that it's Saturday and that the kids are all home right around the time that Jacob opens the door, gets a good look at Stan, and screams at his mom and dad to come quick, Uncle Stan's all jacked up.

"Hey, kiddo, don't- it's okay, don't worry," Stan tries to explain, raising both hands in what he hopes is a conciliatory gesture. Jess and Shermie get to the door at nearly the same time, and both make the same horrified face at him. "Hey guys, uh, I- I said I'd come by with Ford, so-"

"Stan, what happened to your face?!" Jess cries, grabbing his arm and examining his wrist. "What happened here? Honey, did- did you get mugged or-"

"Nooo, no, I'm okay," Stan says hurriedly. "I-I just need Shermie's help getting Ford out of the car."

"Did Ford do that to you?" Shermie asks, aghast.

"There may have been an Incident," Stan says, swallowing drily. "Look, I kind of... think I punched him into unconsciousness and made his eye start bleeding, and I think he really hurt his face when he uh, when he got me," Stan adds, waving a hand at the general ache in his face. "So, uh, trust me, he's in- he's in a lot worse shape, he's just, kind of, you know, duct-taped to the chair and I can't get him out."

"Sweet Moses," Shermie says faintly.

"Baby, I'm... gonna have to tap out of this," Jessica says to Shermie, looking dazed. "My ability to deal with Pines Men Emotional Messes ends with physical violence."

"That's fair, hon," Shermie says in a soft, defeated tone, and Stan takes a shy step back, shame crawling through his chest. "Okay, Stan, let's... let's go free Ford."

Stan's hands are shaking so badly in his pockets that he can feel it against his hips, through the layers of his hoodie and his jeans. When they open the car door and get a look at Ford, Shermie winces visibly.

"Ah, Sherman, it's been- it's been far too long," Ford says, and Shermie drags his hand over his mouth. Stan stays pressed against the side of the Stanleymobile, unable to look too hard at the damage to Ford's face.

"Ford, I'm going to get this tape off'a you," Shermie says after a moment. "I- I just- _why_ -"

"I assure you, it was for Stanley's own safety," Ford says seriously, straightening up as best he can. "Shermie, listen. I've been, apparently, saying and doing some terrible things. To put it as concisely as possible, I've actually been... possessed by a dream demon and-"

"Alright, you two, that's enough," Shermie says, and Stan and Ford both flinch just a little at his raised voice. "You two, I- I hate to do this, but..."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "I'm callin' Ma."


	5. Chapter 5

Stan steps carefully along the basement stairwell- Ford really must have fallen behind on his bills, Stan thinks, because there's no power at all in the house, just the faint rattle of a generator downstairs. It's cold, but Stan's face is sweaty- kind of his usual state, though. Stan tries to see by the thin light seeping in from all the open doors and windows, but it's not enough to take him more than a couple of feet down.

Sighing resignedly, Stan pulls out his phone and fiddles with it a bit until the flashlight app activates, the bright light of the LED camera flash a suitable substitute for actual light.

Stan sort of wishes he had one of those enormous metal mag-lights that Shermie brings on camping trips, but it hadn't occurred to him to ask for one before coming. Oh well. He chews absentmindedly on a wad of gum- terrible habit, honestly, but it's better than any number of terrible habits he's safely avoided picking up before now. He thinks vaguely that he should get a new stick of gum, but when he pats his pockets he can't find the pack, so he decides to hold on to this one for now.

The basement is colder than the house upstairs, but only just. Ford's already there, doing something complicated-looking to the bizarre console that connects to the weird machine- the portal generator, Stan remembers, Ford called it a portal generator.

"You said you'd take this thing apart," Stan says reproachfully, and Ford makes a soft noise in his direction but says nothing. "Ford, you said-"

Stan grabs his shoulder and turns him bodily around, and cries out in horror and shock at the bloody wreck that's left of Ford's face.

"Ford! Shit, Ford, what- what happened?!" he wails, and Ford flinches back from him.

"Y-you don't remember- of course, of c-course," Ford mutters, teeth chattering. There's a bitemark in his cheek that Stan can see his molars through, a ragged tear exposing muscle and gums. Stan's going to be sick, but first- but first he's going to beat the shit out of whoever did this. Stan puts his hands on Ford's shoulders.

"Ford, who did this?" he asks, and Ford looks guiltily away.

"Th-that's not important right now, Stan. You- y-you have to help me," he says, and Stan nods, biting back the urge to sob.

"Okay, Ford, okay. What do you need me to do?"

"I was- I-I was wrong, Stan," Ford whimpers softly. "I-I thought destroying the portal would keep... Bill... out of this dimension for good." He swallows, livid red-purple bruises moving on his throat as he does. "But that's what he wanted me to think. The energy that's released when the portal is shut off is powerful- p-powerful enough to create a rift in spacetime. Keeping this portal turned on is th-the only thing preventing Bill from coming here and destroying everything."

"Ford, I- I don't know, that's... that doesn't seem right," Stan says doubtfully, and Ford lets out a tiny, pained moan.

"Stan... please. We- we tried to shut it off. D-don't you remember?" he asks, sounding terrified. "W-we barely got Bill out in time-"

"Bill? That the thing that wore you like a person-suit?" Stan asks, scowling. His face is sweaty, so he wipes his forearm across his face.

His sleeve comes away red and wet.

Stan looks at it, dull comprehension coming over him. He spits out the gum. It tastes like old pennies, and lands flat and bloody on the floor of Ford's basement.

"Ford, what did I do?" Stan asks softly, his voice trembling. His stomach rebels, and he pitches forward, barely able to keep himself from losing his lunch right then and there.

"It's okay," Ford says quietly, shaking, his back pressed against the machine. "It's not your fault, Stan, it- it wasn't you. It was B-"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan wakes up in a tangle of bedsheets, the pillow and his shirt both soaked with sweat. He looks around in a panic- robin's egg blue walls, lamp that looks like a rubber ducky, pastel pink-and-orange kitten pattern on the sheets and blanket, a worryingly large collection of stuffed animals that mostly seem to have been knocked off the bed in his sleep. Not a drop or spot of red anywhere. He's in Mabel's room- Ford, Stan recalls vaguely, had been shown to the guest room, and Shermie had told Stan to get some rest 'or else.' Stan runs his tongue over his teeth, but they just taste like- well, okay, not great, but just because he's eaten and drank coffee and hasn't brushed his teeth in twenty-four hours.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tries to compose himself for several minutes. It was a dream. It was not real. He concentrates on things that are real: the ducky is yellow, the walls are blue, the bookshelf is white, the books are pink and blue and green and brown and purple and gray. His face still hurts- Jess had said that it looked like his nose was broken, he remembers. His hair is a tangled mess; he pulls it back into a new, lumpy ponytail, and makes a mental note to ask one of the kids to brush his hair out for him. He can smell... his own breath, his own sweat, but past that, Mabel's fluffy gray cat and the slightly bad smell of the craft glue she and Dipper use all the time.

He can hear... he pauses. He can hear Ford and the three kids talking in the other room. Stan pulls himself unsteadily to his feet and edges out into the hallway until he figures out that Ford and the kids are in the family room, bunched up on the couch in a cluster while Ford reads to them from a book of screenplays that Stan'd left behind the last time he babysat.

"You're reading it wrong," Mabel insists, and Dipper bops his head in a nod.

"Uncle Stan does it with Voices," he adds. Ford, to his credit, understands immediately.

"...this is Miss Liz Powell," he squeaks, and Dipper and Mabel laugh gleefully.

"No, Uncle Ford, you're supposed to make it sound like Rod Serling!" Jacob says, grinning up at him. Ford grins unsteadily back- one eye ringed with a nasty-looking bruise (although, Stan's relieved to notice, it's nowhere near as bad as he remembers,) looking still too-thin and too-tired, but... whole.

**It was a dream. It was not real.**

"Uncle Stan!" Mabel cries out, bouncing off of the couch and faceplanting on the carpet. Ford winces, as he's obviously not used to the fact that these kids are apparently made of rubber, and looks visibly relieved when the girl scrabbles to her feet and latches onto Stan's waist. "Uncle Stan, thank you for bringing Uncle Ford! He knows unicorns, Uncle Stan!"

" _You_ know a unicorn," Stan says automatically in his Princess Sparklecastle voice, and she giggles.

"No, Uncle Stan, REAL unicorns _for real that are **REAL**_!"

Stan glances questioningly at Ford, who nods grimly.

"Mabel, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the unicorns I've met have all been ass-" Stan makes a warning face, and Ford quickly recovers. "-aaahhsss rude as can be, Mabel, they're- they've been absolute jerks."

"Uncle Stan, Uncle Ford said he's seen ghosts!" Dipper squeaks out. "Just like on Ghost Harassers!"

"Y-yes," Ford says, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Although- although, to be quite frank, the ghosts spent the entire time harassing me."

"Oh boy," Stan says, blinking. Mabel starts trying to climb him; he lowers one arm to give her a boost, and she ends up sitting on his shoulders after just a few moments. "Look, guys, uh- that's super cool, but what time is it? How long was I out for?"

"You were sleeping for forever, Uncle Stan," Jacob says, giving him a worried look that breaks Stan's heart into little pieces. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, kiddo, I, uh- I was just real tired," Stan says warmly, and Jacob frowns at him. Oh no, Stan realizes slowly. He's actually- he's old enough to know when Stan's lying now.

"Well how come your face was all messed up?" Jacob asks, and Ford opens his mouth to answer, but Stan beats him to it.

"Well, ah, y'see, I almost ran the Stanleymobile into a deer on the way home, right Ford? A-and I hit the brakes real hard, but my big dumb face hit the steering wheel," he stammers out, and Mabel coos sympathetically at him from the general area of his scalp.

"Your face isn't dumb, Uncle Stan," Dipper pipes up, chewing nervously on the collar of his shirt. Stan gently removes Mabel and plops her down onto the couch between her brothers.

"Thanks, Dipping-sauce," Stan says, ruffling his hair. Dipper grabs his arm, his chocolate-brown eyes gone totally round.

"Uncle Stan, did you get bit by a coywolf? That's a thing Uncle Ford told us about," he says, and Stan clears his throat to prepare another lie.

"Ah, n-no, Dipper, you see how these are all a distinctive half-moon shape and how there are six?" Ford asks, shooting Stan a guilty look that Stan can't figure out. "While we were driving here, I, ah- I forcibly grasped Stanley by the arm here, and my fingernails were-"

"Because of the deer," Stan interrupts, sweating.

"Is the deer okay?" Mabel asks, on tenterhooks.

"Peachy," Ford says, frowning at Stan. Mabel bounces off the couch again and runs off to her room, and returns within a minute with a box of Hello Kitty bandaids.

"You need bandaids, Uncle Stan!" she proclaims, and Stan sighs.

"I mean, technically I don't, pumpkin, these are all scabbed-" he begins, but she makes a doe-eyed face at him and he sighs again, holding out his arm to give her access. "Go nuts, sweetie."

Ford's looking a bit fresher than Stan remembers. Stan frowns, because if anybody needed sleep it should've been him, and yet he had clearly had time to take a shower and change into a pair of Shermie's sweatpants and one of Stan's black band t-shirts that keeps getting forgotten. Stan glances at the window, his brow furrowed, and finally squints up at the cuckoo clock on the wall for a few minutes in an attempt to decipher it without his contacts in.

"It's kind of light out for eight," he says, frowning. "Also, I can't believe you guys let me miss dinner-"

"You missed dinner _and_ breakfast!" Dipper pipes up.

Stan opens his mouth, takes in Ford's guilty expression, and puts his fingers over his lips, thinking.

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Um. Nineteen and a half hours," Ford says, clearing his throat. "Give or take."

"And it... didn't feel like something you might wanna mention, Ford?" Stan asks, jaw sagging open. "I been asleep for an _entire day_? That doesn't- that doesn't feel like, I dunno, an important detail for somebody when they wake up?"

"Funny," Ford says, frowning. "I seem to recall a _certain person among us_ who declined to advertise the fact that they'd lured their brother into a car, lulled him to sleep, and then drove for several hours into a _different state_ before letting said brother know-"

"Great!" Stan sighs forcefully, careful not to move too much while Mabel's at work with her bandaids. "Great. Wonderful. Awesome. Kids, you're obviously the only ones I can trust around here-"

"Hey!"

"-where are your parents?" Stan asks, ignoring Ford.

"They're getting Grandma at the airport," Jacob says, and Stan freezes.

"Grandma?" he wheezes, giving Ford a Look.

"So, Stanley," Ford says cheerfully. "Guess who hopped on a flight out for an impromptu visit?"

"I'll kill you," Stan says thoughtfully. "I'll actually kill you."

"No you won't, Uncle Stan," Dipper says sternly.

"Saved by the kid, Nerdlord," Stan says, jabbing a finger in Ford's direction.

"You have time to shower, change, and brush your teeth before she gets here," Ford says, glancing at his wristwatch. "Assuming you go start _right now_."

"Oh my _god_ ," Stan cries out, dashing for the guest bathroom.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At sixty-one and exhausted from a sudden flight, Sara Pines is still one of the most stunningly beautiful women Stan's ever met. He tells her this as soon as she walks in the door and she swats him with her stolen copy of the Skymall catalogue.

"I'm not kidding, Ma," he says, beaming, and she fixes a Look at him over the edge of her glasses.

"You know how I feel about flatterers, Stanley-" she begins, and Ford walks in, a tray bearing some sparkling Mabel cookies in hand, and makes a faux-surprised noise.

"Ma, you're here!" he says nervously, blinking rapidly. "And you don't look a _day_ over forty-five!"

"You two," Ma sighs, giving Shermie a knowing look. "Don't suppose either of you wants to tell me why you both look like you were fighting, do you?"

"Uncle Stan almost hit a deer, but he stopped the car in time!" Mabel chirps, as she and Dipper launch themselves at Ma for hugs.

"Oh did he," Ma says sweetly, pressing red lipstick marks onto Mabel's cheek and over Dipper's birthmark before Jacob comes in for his own hug and smooch. Stan and Ford exchange troubled glances, and Shermie gives them both a tired sort of smirk on his way to the kitchen to put the moka pot on the stove.

Stan and Ford fidget and sweat through a brunch- mostly something to tide Stan and Ma over until lunch- and wait until Ma's on her third cup of cafe cubano before they dare speak again, the kids all having migrated to the next room to play Mario Kart.

She puts her emptied espresso cup down on the table. "Stanford, it's been ten years since Sherm and Jess've seen you, you met the twins for the first time last night, and you broke Stanley's nose?"

Ford clears his throat. "Y-yes, Ma."

"Stanley, you kidnapped Ford, transported him against his will across state lines, and gave your brother a black eye?"

"I mean, when you put it _that_ way," Stan tries to joke. Shermie shakes his head at Stan, and Stan sighs under Ma's unamused gaze. "Yes, Ma."

"You two knuckleheads got it out of your systems?" she asks, and Ford and Stan give one another guilty looks.

"Yes, Ma," they mumble in unison.

"Alright, boys," she says mildly, looking over at Jess. "Thank you for the coffee, _mija_ , it's perfect."

"Thanks, Ma," Jessica says, glancing over at Shermie. Ma fixes her piercing gaze on her twin sons.

"What's this about demons, Ford?" she asks, and Ford straightens up, glad to finally have something to contribute other than boyish contrition.

"Well, demons is a simplification, we're really speaking about extradimensional beings made of pure energy whose motives and methods of achieving these goals- ie, human possession, ritualistic ceremonial chanting and sacrificial offerings as means of summoning-"

"What the shit, Ford!" Stan says, aghast.

"Yeah, I agree, what the shit, Ford?" Shermie asks. They both quiet down after a glance from Ma.

"-b-but in reality we're looking at, ah, beings that are simply from a different plane of existence altogether that only rarely intersects with ours," Ford finishes sheepishly.

"So... aliens that just so happen to look and act exactly like demons?" Jess asks after a moment, glancing up from Ma's Skymall.

"Well... yes."

"That's interesting, Ford. That's very interesting," Ma says evenly. "I don't seem to recall raising you to summon demons."

Ford sighs and looks down, mumbling.

"What was that?" Ma asks sharply.

"I said, it was just the one," Ford offers, and Ma purses her lips and narrows her eyes.

"Your father did not go to war with the Viet Cong just for you to turn around and summon even _one_ demon, Stanford."

"Yes, Ma."

Stan snickers, and Ma turns her attention towards him and kills the laughter in his throat.

"Stanley, is there a good reason why you didn't call Sherman when you found out your brother was in some sort of demonic thrall?"

"Um," Stan says, blinking. "I mean... no, Ma, but, uh, to be fair, I didn't know he was... doing stuff with demons until like, all the way after Ford broke my nose and said all that weird stuff, so like-"

Ma raises both eyebrows at him.

"You couldn't tell the difference between your brother and a demon who broke your nose, honey?"

Stan squirms in his chair, shrugging. "I-I mean, why wouldn't Ford do that?" he asks finally, and Ma sighs, picking up her empty cup. 

"You said Bill said you should have killed yourself when we were kids, Stan," Ford says quietly. "Y-you didn't... _know_ I wouldn't have said that?"

"I mean, why _wouldn't_ you?" Stan asks again, and Ma stands suddenly.

"You two are going to give me an ulcer," she says flatly.

"Sorry, Ma," Stan says, not entirely sure what it is he did now but smart enough to know he doesn't want to go down that particular rabbithole just yet.

"So, uh," Shermie says, exchanging nervous glances with Jessica and frowning at Stan, for some reason. "I think we ought to talk about gettin' Stan's therapist in here to talk to them, she's good people and-"

"I dunno about any of that," Ma says quickly, tossing dark silver hair over one shoulder. "But I think it's about time we had a little conversation with this Bill person."

"But _Ma_ -" Ford starts, looking worried.

"The only 'but' I wanna see is yours in that chair, Mister!" Ma snaps, and Ford shuts his mouth. "Here's what we're gonna do. Jess, sweetheart, I'm gonna ask that you take the kiddos to the park or somethin' to keep'em from seein' something they don't wanna see. Sherman, Stan, I'm gonna need your help, you two stay put. And Stanford, before you say it: yes, I do expect to banish a demon from your brain usin' nothin' but my force of personality and a caffiene high, _you rude little boy_."

"I wasn't going to _say_ that," Ford says automatically, before his mouth hangs open. (Stan has to fight the urge to guffaw.) "Ma, h-how did you know I was thinking that-?"

"It's like each and every one'a you forgets that your Ma's been a professional psychic for forty years," she snaps. "What, did you think the sign on our window was there for looks?"

There is an exchange of three equally flabbergasted looks, on three nearly identical faces. (Jess is quietly snorting back a giggle, her face hidden by the catalogue.)

"Pour me another cup, Sherm," Ma sighs, rolling her eyes behind her glasses. "Looks like we're gonna need to extend this Family Meeting so you knuckleheads can catch up."


	6. Chapter 6

Stan seeks Ford out after Ma finishes plotting their course. It takes Stan a minute to find and approach him, smiling awkwardly, and Ford shifts over to make room for his brother on the back step. Stan sits down next to him, drumming his fingers against his knee.

"You believed Ma right away," Ford says, after a while. "About her being a real psychic."

"I know," Stan says, leaning back.

"But not me, about Bill being a demon," Ford adds, and Stan sighs through his nose.

"Oh, come on, Ford. I believe ya _now_." He glances over, his knee jiggling. "Are you mad that I didn't _know_ that you were dumb enough to screw around summoning demons? I didn't even think demons were real before today."

"You would've believed me when we were kids," Ford says quietly. Stan almost chokes on his own tongue at that, and Ford thumps his back a few times until Stan shoves his arm away with an irritated huff.

"When we were kids? Ford, when exactly are we talking about here? When we were Jacob's age? When we were Dipper and Mabel's age? When we were teenagers?" He laughs bitterly, rubbing his chest through his shirt. "Because you didn't believe _me_ when we were that age. I mean, how far back do we have to go before you trusted me that much?"

Ford is quiet for several minutes; Stan's back and legs are starting to hurt from the awkward seated position. He sort of regrets coming out here, now.

"Are we ever going to be okay?" Ford asks suddenly, surprising Stan.

Stan has to think about the answer, chewing on his lower lip and avoiding Ford's gaze.

"I mean, sure," he says. "We'll get rid of this demon problem, you'll start eating right and bathing ever, you'll keep in touch with Ma and Shermie and Jess and the kids like you shoulda been all this time. You know?"

"Yes, that's very- that's good, Stanley, but I didn't mean me, am _I_ going to be okay, I meant we- _us_. I meant..." Ford waves a hand. "I don't... I don't want things to continue like this, Lee."

Stan pats his shoulder, standing up. "That's what I'm sayin', Sixer. We'll get everything fixed up, and your life is- your life is gonna turn all the fuck the way around. I promise."

Stan coaxes Ford back inside, where Shermie and Ma have been setting up candles and a comfortable spot for what Ma is calling a reverse-exorcism and what Ford has been sullenly referring to as a ritual of following whenever he's sure Ma isn't in a position to hear him.

"I don't know, Ma," Shermie says, just as they step in. "I don't know if that's the kind of thing that should be a surpr-" He pauses as his brothers walk in, and Ma shoots Stan and Ford a smile.

"There's my boys," she says, beaming. "Do you boys need to use the bathroom before we start? I can't turn this thing around if one of you needs to tinkle."

"No, _Ma_ ," Stan groans.

"Don't sass your Ma," she says primly, turning to Shermie. "Sherm, one last thing. I need you to give me one of Mabel's little dolls- something small, something she won't miss."

"Ma, she'll miss a single Barbie _shoe_ , let alone an entire-" Shermie starts, only to sigh when Ma levels a particularly pointed look his way. "Yes, Ma."

"Ford'll get her a new one," Stan volunteers, and Ford shoots him a glare that manages to be annoyed despite the obvious dread tugging at his features.

"What's the dolly for, Ma?" Ford asks, and Ma sniffs at him.

"Never you mind all that, Stanford. Put yourself to sleep."

"Ma!" Ford protests weakly. "I can't just- _put_ myself to sleep. I have a very _hard_ time getting to sleep at all, just-"

"I can give'im a bonk if ya want, Ma," Stan says brightly.

"...no thank you, Stanley," Ma says, after a moment of apparently deep consideration.

"Like you two are still trying to beat the crap out of each other even," Shermie grumbles under his breath.

"I can put'im to sleep, Ma," Stan volunteers.

"How?" Ford asks, suspicious as hell.

"S'my little secret," Stan says cheerfully. "Just lay down in the, ah, sleep zone. Ma, Sherm, you guys need to go for a few minutes." Stan waits until they're gone, before he goes to the downstairs bathroom and starts fiddling with the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Ford asks, and Stan comes back with a half-empty bottle of Zzz-Quil. Ford blinks as he considers the bottle in Stan's hand. "You... are planning on drugging me? Of course you are."

"It's not _drugging_ if it's shit you can buy over the counter for, like, five dollars," Stan reasons.

"Um, no, it's still drugging regardless of how you got your hands on it," Ford insists. "You don't... use this stuff on the kids or anything, do-"

"Ford, what the hell do you take me for?" Stan asks, shocked. "I have trouble sleepin' sometimes, too, so I- for shit's sake, Ford, really?"

"I don't know!" Ford snaps, taking the bottle. "You've spent most of the last twenty-four hours sleeping, Stan, I wouldn't have figured-"

"Yeah, and that's after more'n thirty-six of mostly-drivin'," Stan argues, before snapping his mouth shut with a huff. "Look. Take a tablespoon or two. Don't chug it-" he starts, as Ford opens the bottle and starts chugging it. " _Damn_ , Ford."

"Bleeaahh," Ford complains, handing the bottle back.

"Yeah, no, I'm never taking any of this again, you got your filthy demon germs all over it," Stan says, nose wrinkling. "You fuckin' backwash."

"I do not," Ford insists.

"You do and you know it," Stan says, closing the bottle. "Lay yer ass down and try to sleep. If you're not asleep by the time I come back, I'm gonna bonk you over the head and see if that works."

"Ma'll kill you," Ford mutters, making himself comfortable.

"Yeah, yeah," Stan sighs, watching Ford for a few seconds before taking the bottle into the kitchen to dispose of it. He tosses it into the trash, before turning and noticing with a start that Ma's in there, too.

"Oh, Ma, I didn't see ya," he says, and she nods, motioning him over. He takes a few uneasy steps closer, and lets her link an arm around his midsection.

"Tell me something, _gordito_ ," she says, smelling of espresso and the strong white lilac perfume she's worn all Stan's life. He leans his face against her silver hair, mutely wishing she lived in California and could visit more often. "When you heard from Stanford that he needed your help, even without knowing what it was, why did you drop everything to go to him?"

"Can't you just psychic the answer outta me?" he asks, and she tweaks his nose.

"Sassy." He peeks at her, and she's smiling. "Your mind's always been a little tough to get a read on, _mijito_. I can feel your feelings easier than I can read your words."

"Is that how it works?" he asks, curious despite himself.

"No, sweetie."

"...ah." Stan sighs, breaking away from her to play with Shermie's fancy kitchen equipment, getting fingerprints on his copper mule mugs and something that looks like if the Terminator and a food processor had a baby together. "I guess... I guess I just didn't care what his problem was, you know? He needed me. I came."

"I see." Ma is quiet, until the subtle clicks of her kitten heels on the tile floor let Stan know that she's come over to his end of the kitchen. "You two have never talked about the last few years."

"Nothin' to talk about," Stan mutters, and she sighs behind him, rubbing his spine through the material of his shirt, right between his shoulder blades.

"Stubborn as a mule, the pair of ya," she mutters.

"Stubborn as _two_ mules," he corrects, and she huffs and gives his ponytail a playful tug.

"What did I do to deserve you two knuckleheads for sons?" she chuckles affectionately.

"Some terrible, unnamed sin," he suggests. She tuts and flaps one of Shermie's dish towels at him.

"Shouldn't we go in and check on Stanford?" she asks, and Stan shakes his head.

"Nah, give it a few more minutes. He's like Mabel, he'll bore himself to sleep if we don't distract him."

"Smart boy," Ma says approvingly, and Stan ducks his head a little.

Shermie returns before anything more embarassing can happen, entering his kitchen with a smug expression and thirty-six inches of floppy satin and frizzy orange hair dangling from his hand.

"Shermie, what the hell!" Stan cries, shocked. "Ma said something small that Mabel won't miss. Bobbles is huge!"

"Oh my," Ma says mildly.

"You gave my daughter the creepy clown from Poltergeist and you _knew_ it'd terrify the crap out of me," Shermie replies, shaking the clown doll with a vaguely menacing jingle of hidden bells. "We're gonna be getting rid a'this, right Ma?"

"Right you are, Sherm. Sorry, Stanley, I'm with your brother on this one, that thing is hideous," Ma says cheerfully.

"You know what, that's fine, you can be in charge'a tellin' Mabes why Bobbles is suddenly missing," Stan huffs.

Ford is sleeping fitfully when they finally do peek in on him, curled uncomfortably on his side in a small pile of couch cushions.

"Alright, Stanley and Sherman, huddle in close," Ma says, after lighting the candles. "Sherm, hand on Ford's head. Stan, take his left hand."

"Alright, now what?" Shermie asks, blinking.

"Well, I'm gonna send you two into your brother's brain so you can help me drag that demon out," Ma says smoothly. "Just- look for Stanford, make sure you've got a good hold on him. I'd hate to cast Ford out of his own body and leave that demon in his body."

"Um. Okay," Shermie says doubtfully.

Ma starts chanting something; Stan starts to ask what language it is she's speaking when everything suddenly goes fuzzy and numb.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan opens his eyes suddenly and sits up, confused. "Where- where are we?" he asks, blinking.

"I... dunno," Shermie says next to him, scratching his head. Stan looks around- the doomsday device in Ford's basement is there, but bigger and made of jagged, nearly-black metal with sinister-looking crimson light emanating from the cracks and seams. There's a building near a sparsely wooded area that looks sort of like Ford's cabin in the woods, but also quite a bit like some long, low-slung institutional building that Stan doesn't recognize, and back a ways through the trees Stan's pretty sure he can see the shabby, well-loved old catboat they'd refurbished through most of their childhood. Stan feels a little like he's been punched in the chest.

"So that's the big bad portal machine, huh?" Shermie asks, elbowing Stan. "Looks like one of those video game computers you were showing me last week."

"What- oh," Stan says, blinking. "Yeah, that's... it sorta does. I think it's the red, though, the real one didn't have any red on it."

"Oh boy, this is cute. Fordsy's family to the rescue," says a voice behind them, grating every last one of Stan's nerves immediately. "Nice seein' ya again, Ponytail. I see you brought Dadbod this time."

Stan and his brother turn immediately, and come face to... eye with a brilliantly yellow triangle. Wearing a top hat and a bow tie and holding a little cane.

"Oh boy," Stan echoes, elbowing Shermie. Shermie frowns at it, before looking at Stan.

"Get a load of this guy," Shermie says flatly, before giving the triangle a barely-disguised look of contempt that Stan has only previously seen levelled in the direction of a teacher who made Dipper cry back in third grade. "I take it you're this... Bill Cipher we've come here to get rid of. Can't say I'm impressed by your looks any."

"He looks like he's gonna start singin' and dancin' any minute," Stan reflects, feeling weirdly calm over the mixed barrel of terror and fury he feels right this very second. "Puttin' on the ritz. Almost be cute if it wasn't busy torturing Stanford all the time."

"You two dopes really think you can get rid of me," the triangle says. Stan's not sure how it can make a smug face with no real face to speak of, but it's managing to do it and he's getting mad. "You don't get it, do you? Ol' Fordsy called me up and invited me in- he's never gettin' rid of me! Although hey, good call bringing us into the house where your children sleep."

"Son of a bitch," Stan snarls, "if you lay a hand-"

"Oh, boohoo, you'll what, break _his_ fingers?" The triangle cackles, flashing past them towards the building at the edge of the trees. Stan surges to give chase, but Shermie puts a hand out, laying it flat across his chest.

"Come on, Stan," he says, his voice shaking slightly. "It ain't- it isn't worth it to chase after that thing. We're here to find Ford, remember?"

"Where would Ford be?" Stan asks, heaving out a sigh. "The triangle guy went into that... building over there. You think Ford's in there, too?"

"I mean... maybe. It looks kind of like the dorms he lived in at college," Shermie says, after a moment. "But like it's mashed up with some kind of weird house..."

"That's the house he lives in now, up in Gravity Falls," Stan tells him, folding his arms. "So it's... the two places he's called home since, uh, since-" Stan waves a hand.

"Since high school," Shermie says, frowning. "I guess... it'd make sense if he was there. Do you think we should look for 'im there?"

Stan opens his mouth to say _yes, of course_ , but- but he stops, thinking about the forlorn way Ford had asked, _are we ever going to be okay?_

Stan turns and looks at the derelict boat, just visible through the woods. "There's somewhere I wanna try first."

Shermie makes a soft noise of agreement, and they head towards it.

"So this is what Ford's mind looks like on the inside," Shermie says, after a few moments.

"Huh, yeah. I guess so." Stan wonders briefly what the inside of his would look like, before shaking his head slightly. Probably some kind of spooky low-budget horror movie dump. "I would've expected more, like... math and whatever."

"Yeah, what does math look like, then?" Shermie asks, and Stan huffs.

"I dunno. Graphs? Lines? Buncha green ones and zeroes?"

"You're thinkin' of the Matrix," Shermie says, grinning at him as they reach the boat. It... doesn't exactly look the way Stan remembers it. It's crisper and brighter, for one, the peeling paint on the hull the perfect hotrod cherry-red of the cars he and Ford used to jokingly say would be theirs one day, the shadows and slim lines of darkness between boards and hinges standing sharply out against it blacker than the inside of a car trunk at midnight. The half of it that Stan can see is almost too real-looking, the splintered and missing back of the boat all the more glaring for the space it leaves in the landscape, the mast snapped in half and the sail sagging limply in a nonexistent wind.

"I think he's in there," Stan says softly.

"Is this some kinda twin thing?" Shermie asks, eyebrows raised over the rims of his glasses. "Dipper and Mabel don't seem to have a twin thing."

"Sure they do, their allergies are synced," Stan says, climbing up onto the boat and giving Shermie a hand. "And nah, Ford and I don't have a twin thing."

"Stan, their allergies go off at the same time because they're allergic to the same things," Shermie explains, after a moment. "What now? This thing isn't big enough to hide one guy, much less-"

"It's not real," Stan says, waving a hand. He crouches down next to a small trap door, running his hand over it. He and Ford used to prop it open with Stan's textbooks, back when they were young enough to be afraid of getting stuck inside. "We can't just assume it's not some kinda bigger-on-the-inside thing."

"Mm, true." Stan pulls the door open, and both men hear it at once: the unmistakable sniffling of a crying kid. They climb in one after another without hesitation.

The poorly-lit hallway wouldn't have fit inside the real Stan O'War; it looks a little too long to fit in Stan's current apartment. There's a little huddled lump of misery on the far end, and Stan and Shermie run- Stan a little faster but not by much, both of them slightly winded by the time they get there.

"Dipper?" Stan asks, confused. "What are you doin' in here, hon?"

"That's not Dipper, Stan," Shermie says quietly, taking a knee next to the little boy with his head in his little hands.

Little six-fingered hands. Stan reaches out, ruffling the brown curls on the kid's head, and little-Ford looks up, eyes and nose running.

"Hey bud," Stan says, and is surprised when the boy bursts into fresh tears at the sight of him... well, not shocked-surprised, just momentarily startled-surprised. "Aw, gee, I-"

"Y-you h-h-hate me," the boy sobs, and Stan freezes, makes panicked eye contact with Shermie. Shermie gives him a bewildered shrug, before reaching down and rubbing his little brother's back.

"I don't hate you," Stan offers.

"Yeah, Stanford, nobody hates you," Shermie tells him seriously.

"Y-you do, you do hate me. You left me coz you hate me," the boy wails, and Stan winces at the volume and scoops Ford up into his arms.

"The hell I do. I love you, Ford, we _both_ love ya. You're our brother," he says seriously, in his firmest "I didn't see any monsters under your bed _this_ time, Dipper, but I'll be waiting with a baseball bat if any crawl out" voice. Ford sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of the bomber jacket he must've worn every day straight through from Hanukka of 1990 until he literally couldn't wear it anymore sometime in mid-1996. Stan gives him a little shake. "You don't believe me, but would Shermie lie to you?"

"N-no," Ford mumbles, pressing his face against Stan's chest.

"That's right, Ford," Shermie says consolingly. "I'd lawyer the hell outta you, but I wouldn't lie."

Stan and Ford both snicker a little. Ford does seem to settle down a little, although he's clinging to Stan's front in a way that almost painfully reminds him of holding Jacob and the twins this way. Stan ducks his head down, impulsively planting a smooch on Ford's head the way he's always done for his niblings, and when he looks back up at Shermie his big brother's giving him the sappiest, goofiest grin he's ever seen.

"Come on, Ford. Ma's gonna be comin' to get rid of that demon fella," Shermie says warmly.

"Lee?" the little kid in his arms asks, sniffling. "I-I didn't want you to go away."

"...I know, Ford," Stan sighs, standing Ford up. "Come on. You feel like bein' your age?"

"You don't like me at my age," Ford mutters, scrubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. "You only liked me when I was little."

Stan sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. The kid looks ready to start bawling again. "...you know what, we'll finish this conversation later."

"Come on, Ford, ya big baby," Shermie says, surprising Ford (and Stan, to be honest) by hefting him up into his arms and swinging him onto his back. "Let's find Ma so she can fix this."

Stan cocks his head to the side, holding out a hand. "Do you hear that clicking noise?"

"Clicking?" Shermie pauses and listens for it, frowning slightly. "Yeah... what is-"

"Ma!" Ford cries gleefully, jumping off Shermie's back in a tumble. Stan's hit with a whiff of white lilac and espresso just as she steps into view, her kitten heels clicking against the wood floor as she starts walking faster towards them. Ford throws himself at her, burying his face against the front of her crimson coat, and Stan would swear that she looks nigh-angelic as she grins and twirls her son around.

"Ford, baby, you've gotten so little," she says, and he sniffles and clings tighter to her. "Are you ready to get rid of that dirty no-account Bill, baby?"

"Yeah, Ma," he says, rubbing his eyes. She gives him a sad little smile, cupping his cheek in her hand.

"I'm gonna need you to grow back up, my dear."

Ford gives Stan a hesitant glance, but he squares his shoulders and exhales slowly. "O-okay, Ma."

There's no obvious transition- Stan was kind of hoping for a Sailor Moon style transformation sequence, to be honest. One moment Ford's a little boy, the next he is a grown man, still looking unaccountably baby-faced in an adult-sized version of his old jacket.

"I know what I'm gettin' Ford for his birthday," Stan mutters to Shermie, who nods.

"Let's get this over with, pumpkin. Give me your right hand, Ford," Ma says, and he obeys, still not looking at Stan or Shermie. "I'm gonna bring Bill to us. Don't be afraid, sweetheart."

"I won't be," Ford mutters. Ma nods, saying something in the same unidentifiable language she'd spoken in earlier- _~~LTOLOXA, I erolpmi, ecrof eht redurtni ot siht nam's dnim ot wohs flesmih, taht I yam hsinab mih yleritne~~_ \- and with a rush of wind the triangle's back, looking dazed and more than a little angry.

"So you're the twerp who's been screwing with my boy," she says darkly.

"Oh wow, IQ, you called your Mommy on me," the triangle taunts, flitting around like a particularly offensive firefly. "I'm so scared."

"Scared? Nah. Intrigued is the word you want," Ma says confidently. "You got somethin' I want and I got somethin' you want." The triangle slows down, hovering in place just a little too close to Ford, who is trying desperately not to flinch away. Stan wants to punch the triangle out of existence when he notices Ford's expression.

"...okay, you got me there, Seeing-Eye. What is it you think you can offer a being made of pure energy?"

"First off: I'm gonna want you out of my son's head forever. In fact, I'm gonna want you bound permanently out of his head, out of all my kids' heads, out of my grandkids' heads... forever."

"Fordsy here made a deal, lady-"

"-I don't care what kinda deal you think you made with Stanford. Erase it." Ma raises her chin in defiance. "I'm givin' you a new body."

"Ma!" Ford cries wretchedly. "Ma, don't, it's not worth it-"

"I gotta agree with Six-Fingers, lady. This isn't gonna be worth it-"

"Triangle man, are you dense?" Ma demands, ignoring the uneasy expressions on her sons' faces. "You're what, a relatively low-level dream demon who can only access surface memories, one brain at a time, right?"

"How do you-" the triangle starts, eye narrowed.

"I'm literally a psychic, kid. The real deal." Ma raises an eyebrow. "You know what you could do with that, right?"

"Wow, lady," the triangle says, sounding vaguely impressed. "I mean, yeah, you'd be saving the Pines family, but you understand you'd be handin' me every single brain on the planet, right?"

"Tick tock, kid, yes or no. This deal is the nice way I get rid'a you, you don't want to find out about the hard way. You leave everybody in my family alone, always, forever," Ma says impatiently, slipping back into the weird language that hurts Stan's head to listen to. " ~~ _Dna uoy lliw ekat eht ydob taht si gnidloh Drof's thgir dnah_~~."

"Ma, Ford's right," Shermie says, sweating a little. "I don't like this, there's gotta be another-"

"You know what, Seeing-Eye? I like your style," the triangle crows, thrusting one void-colored noodle arm in her direction, its hand surrounded by bright blue flames. Still steadfastedly holding onto Ford's right hand, she extends her free hand and takes hold, her mouth twitching into a grim smile.

"Nice doin' business with ya," she says primly, yanking the triangle sharply toward herself, and both of them blink out of existence.

"Ma!" Stan cries out, and Ford inhales sharply, his eyes watering.

"Wake up," Ford sobs, his shoulders shaking. "Oh, Ma, Ma, I-"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan jerks himself upright, his fingers still tangled with Ford's left hand. Shermie groans a little next to them, sitting up, and it takes Ford a few seconds but he follows suit, blinking blearily with his head on Ma's lap.

"Oh, Ma, please-" Ford mumbles.

"Please yourself, sweetie," Ma says, smirking down at him. He blinks at her.

It takes about half a second for Ford to think to look at the gloved hand he's been holding, and another half a second to realize it's attached to a horror movie prop.

"Shit on a _biscuit_ ," he yelps, practically jumping into Shermie and Stan's laps in order to distance himself from the clown doll. It shifts slightly, and there's a slight jingling of its bells, but otherwise it seems to be motionless.

"Oh my goodness," Shermie wheezes, struggling to shove Ford off. "I mean, way to go, Ma, but holy shit, I'm gonna have nightmares about this thing for real now, you understand."

"Then burn the darn thing, pumpkin," Ma says, rolling her eyes. "One of you boys help your old mother up. I'm gonna go tinkle."

"He's- He's really stuck in there?" Ford asks, eyes round as he gets to his feet and gives Ma a hand. "And he's really not gonna-"

"Really really, Ford baby," she says, beaming. Ford practically carries her to the downstairs bathroom in his excitement.

Stan and Shermie exchange glances.

"Bet you wish you'd picked something smaller," Stan says, after a minute. "We're gonna have a hell of a time fittin' that thing on the grill."

"We're not gonna burn it up in the grill," Shermie says, sounding mildly offended. "No. This... this thing is destined for a bonfire."

There's a very faint jingle. They both leap to their feet and scramble to the other side of the room.

"I'm gonna hafta get Mabel a new Bobbles," Stan says softly.

"You will not," Shermie whispers back.


	7. Chapter 7

"Uncle Stan said I could read to you two tonight while he's doing something important," Ford says timidly. "Is that alright?"

Dipper beams at him and pats his little hand on the edge of his sleeping bag where Ford, apparently, is allowed to sit. Mabel nods, in the process of arranging her stuffed animals back on her bed- apparently the previous night's occupation by Stan had knocked everybody askew.

Ford breathes a sigh of relief, edging into the room. "I have a book that Stan said you would like-"

"No, that's a Uncle Stan story!" Mabel says, eyes huge. "You gotta give us a new story!"

"Yeah, tell us an Uncle Ford story!" Dipper says gleefully. Ford grins awkwardly, sitting down on the carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry I took over your bedroom, Dipper," he says seriously.

"That's okay, Grandma's in the guest room," the boy replies. So mature for his age, Ford thinks.

"Well... here's a story. Let me know if you already know it."

He clears his throat. "Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away-"

"It's Star Wars!" Mabel whispers loudly.

"No, it's a different galaxy," Ford promises. "Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a beautiful Queen, and she had... two little princes, and their names were... Frodo and Leon. And they were best, best friends, but... but sometimes they thought the other prince got sick of them always needing their help. And they didn't know that the other one felt bad, they didn't know how to talk to one another when they were sad."

"I know how to talk to Mabel when I'm sad!" Dipper gasps, reaching out and grabbing Mabel's hand.

"I know," Ford says, smiling. "It's great."

"You're great, too, Uncle Ford," Mabel says, and he reaches over and ruffles their hair.

"You kids are great," he says happily. "So, sometimes, these princes got upset with one another, and thought maybe they weren't really best friends at all."

"Is this gonna be a sad story?" Dipper asks seriously.

"Yeah, you can't tell us a sad story," Mabel adds.

"It's a little bit sad, but mostly it's happy because it ends happily," Ford explains, and the kids both visibly relax.

Ford clears his throat. "So... one day Frodo and Leon found a... magic boat, washed up on the beach..."

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan raised his head, and Shermie sighed at the sight of him, his face a tangle of blood and bruises under the harsh light of the cell.

"Not exactly how I expected to reunite with you, Stan," Shermie said, and Stan folded in on himself with a small, pathetic sniffle.

"I didn't call you to tell you to come here, I didn't tell you to come here," he said, and Shermie sighed.

"No, _Stanley_ , you called to tell me _goodbye_ , as if you thought I was gonna let that happen." Shermie put his hands on the bars, and frowned slightly when Stan flinched back. "How'd you get hurt, Stan?"

"Some guy," Stan said, sounding far younger than nineteen. Shermie leaned his head against the bars, watching his baby brother fidget; in the three months since Stan took off after the birth of the twins, he'd only called a handful of times, each time promising that he'd be checking in on them soon, each time sounding a little more hurried and hushed, like he was trying not to let someone else hear his call.

"Some guy you were staying with?" Shermie asked evenly, and Stan winced, glancing furtively at his big brother.

"I- It wasn't like- it was just a buddy of mine, nothin' like, not _gay_ or-"

"Stan-" Shermie started, and Stan- apparently- panicked.

"He's nice," he blurted out. "He's nice to me, is all. A-an' it's not- it ain't weird or nothin'. I like girls, so, you know, I'm not-"

"Stan."

"-and I just fucked up real bad, okay, he didn't- he wouldn'ta had any reason to help me out but he did, and I fucked him over by not- by- by not-"

"Stanley Pines," Shermie snapped. "Stop interrupting. Look at me, Stan. I don't care who this guy is or what he's supposedly done for ya or what you've supposedly done to him- nobody's _allowed_ to hit you."

Stan wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking up at him. "I just-"

"No, Stan. Nobody." Shermie scrubbed his hand over his face. "Look... I can't cover your bail, so we're gonna have to go through a bail bondsman."

"Why?"

"I mean, you know how it is, Stan, lot of medical expenses with twins, plus, jeez, the diapers alone-"

"No, I mean, I get that, but... But- why?" Stan asked wretchedly. "Don't, Sherm, I'm goin' to jail anyway, there's no _point_ -"

"You're not going to jail, Stanley," Shermie said firmly. "You didn't hurt anybody, I read the report. You were cryin' and drunk and bleedin' on a public playground and some old lady called it in because she was scared you were dyin'. You're not going to jail for that, Stan."

"...why?" Stan asked softly, and Shermie paused, really looking at him. "Why wouldn't you just let me rot, Sherm? I'm- I'm not worth-"

"Stan," Shermie interrupted. "You're my brother. You're always gonna be worth it to me. I'm always going to love you. I'm always gonna want you around."

Stan frowned, looking like he had something to say. Shermie waited- for him to finally, finally talk about Ford, finally talk about Ma, finally talk about their dad- but eventually Stan just deflated, hanging his head.

"I love you too, Sherm," Stan said softly.

Shermie hesitated. He wasn't any better at this than Stan was, when Jessica wasn't around.

"You're my brother," he said again, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm gonna get you out of here. You might have probation, community service, that kinda thing. I'm not lettin' you go to jail, Stan, but- but you've got to stick around, alright? I need you. Jess and I need you, Jacob needs you, the babies need you. You can't just disappear on us like that again, Stan."

"Okay," Stan said, and he found that he really meant it this time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Stop shaking the demon, _mijito_ ," Ma says idly, over the sound of rustling and muffled jingling.

"He shouldn'ta hurt Ford," Stan reasons, but he does lower the hefty black garbage bag, since it's his mother asking. "Ma, how long you gonna be in town for? Ford an' me should take you out for dinner, it'll be nice, just-"

"Well, I'm at least here until your father gets here," she says, and he freezes, nearly dropping the bagged demon. "And after that we were going to stay for a couple more nights before heading back."

"Filbrick's coming here?" he asks, and she gives him a slightly disapproving look but says nothing. "Why's he coming here? It's all already over!"

"He didn't want me to come here by myself," she explains. Stan throws the bag full of clown doll onto the couch in disgust. She frowns again, crossing her legs. "And he misses everybody, Stanley."

"Okay, fine," Stan mutters, sighing. "When's he gettin' here?"

"Tomorrow, around breakfast-"

"Ma!" Stan cries, fists clutching at the collar of his jacket. "Are you serious? That's hardly any time at all!"

"I'll be here for three whole days before we start our drive back," Ma says consolingly. Stan frowns, sitting down on the couch with a huff. Ma turns to look at him, opens her mouth- then pauses, frowning. "Didn't you just put that bag on the couch there, Stanley?"

Stan blinks at her, then looks down at the couch, which is currently devoid of demonic garbage.

"Thought I did-" he starts, and they both freeze when they hear it.

A faint, scraping rustle of plastic dragging against carpet, and the very faint, muffled tinkle of a bell. Stan cranes his neck to look around, before hissing and scrambling over the back of the couch, pouncing heavily on something near the entrance to the hallway where the kids' bedrooms are located. Stan yelps as the rustling noise increases to a frantic pitch.

"Stan, baby?" Ma asks warily.

"I think it bit me, the little clown-ass bastard," Stan swears, holding the bag firmly at arm's length and shaking it vigorously. "Stop struggling, you puppet-ass dickbag-"

"Uncle Stan," Jacob says quietly from behind him, and Stan jumps. Ma lets out a guffaw, as Jacob rubs his eyes and gives Stan a reproachful look. "Tryna sleep, Uncle Stan."

"Sorry, kiddo," Stan wheezes. "I'll, uh... be quieter."

The bag starts rustling in earnest, and Jacob blinks at it, frowning. "....Uncle Stan, you don't have a raccoon in there, do you?"

"A- a raccoon?" Stan repeats, struggling to think for a moment. "No, uh, it's, uh.... it's... definitely not.... _not_  a raccoon!"

"It _is_ a raccoon?" Jacob asks slowly, frowning. "Why're you punching a raccoon, Uncle Stan?"

"It's not a raccoon! Ma, help me out here," Stan pleads.

"It's that awful clown doll that Stan gave your sister, pumpkin," Ma explains, and Jacob takes a full step back, visibly disturbed. Stan gapes at her, unable to comprehend why for once she, professional liar that she is, went with the naked truth.

"Uncle Stan! I told you that thing was evil! Is it really alive in there?" Jacob asks, sounding just north of terrified.

"It's- uh-" Stan flounders, unwilling to scare his nephew with the truth and equally unwilling to suggest that Ma's lying to the kid. "Grownup stuff, Jake, you'll find out when you're older!"

"What? Why?" Jacob asks, affronted at the suggestion that he, at twelve, would be too young to handle the knowledge of whatever's in Stan's bag.

"You know what I really gotta- this oughta get put away," Stan says, tucking the writhing bag under his arm and giving Jacob a smooch on the forehead. "Night, buddy, I'll talk t'you tomorrow." He makes sure to pop over to Ma and peck her cheek as well before he flees.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Where've you been, Stan? Are you doing okay?" Chris, Stan's manager, asks over the phone, in the same caramel-sticky tone he uses whenever he has to let Stan know that he's not hitting his monthly numbers and needs to step up his game.

"Um, you know, there was a family emergency," Stan says uncertainly.

"Ohh?" Chris asks mildly.

"Yeah, my, uh- my brother had some sort of a... nervous breakdown and I had to... drive him to our other brother's house," Stan says, realizing as he says it that it probably doesn't sound like the truth. He clears his throat. "And, uh, then there was a big, you know. Big hullaballoo around here."

"Oh, yeah, okay," his manager says. Chris heaves a theatrical sigh. "So, here's the thing. You only called out for one of the four days you missed, Stan, and as per our employee handbook sick day policy, you do need to call in each day you're not feeling well enough to work, so three of those days are, unfortunately, considered no-call/no-shows."

"Oh, no, but, see, I- I wasn't able to call in, I really-" Stan starts.

"And of course, you called in sick, when you weren't really the sick person," Chris continues blithely. "Unfortunately, Stan, we're going to have to remove you from the schedule."

"Am I suspended?" Stan asks finally, blinking.

"Actually, no, Mr. Pines. You received written notice of our call-out policy for a previous infraction within the last six months, and as such you are no longer employed by this call center."

Stan rakes his fingers through his hair, his hand shaking. "Um, but- I-"

"But tell you what, Stan, I'll put you on the tentative rehire list, if you apply again after the twelve month no-hire period, you might be able to work here again! You final check has been direct deposited and somebody'll be by today to pick up your headset and laptop. You have a nice day, okay? And take care of that sick brother, y'hear?"

"Um, okay," Stan says, and the line clicks.

"It figures," Stan mutters, and glances over at the trash bag currently making its home duct-taped to the wall away from anything that could break easily. "Bet you thought that was real funny."

The bag is still and silent, and it occurs to Stan that this is probably how Ford started- talking to some evil, semi-animate object like it was alive and a person while his life collapsed around him. Stan could laugh at the situation himself if he wasn't reeling with the sudden, ghastly knowlege that this was easily the best-paying job he was qualified for. It occurs to him that he could barely afford his apartment as it was, even with Sherm trying to be sneaky and slipping him money for groceries, or outright paying for shit like letting Stan stay on his phone plan or paying for his therapist. Stan looks around at the small space that he really, really thought could be his, and sighs.

He supposes he could spend today packing up any nonessentials, try to get another job in the hopes that he can stay another couple of months or at least move into a new, smaller place right away, maybe get a roommate or something. He'll have to stick around today to turn in his equipment, so that's... that's good. Built-in excuse not to have to go over to Shermie's and see Filbrick.

His phone rings, and for a moment Stan's wildly sure that it's his manager calling him back, there's been a mistake, please accept our apologies and we'll go ahead and let you know if your schedule changes-

"Yeah?" Stan answers.

"Hey, Stan, you can't- uh- you're, uh, you're coming back, right?"

Stan blinks at the phone- Ford's voice- but when he looks at the screen it says _Jess_ in white letters over the photo Stan took of her last year.

"You're borrowin' Jessica's phone?" Stan asks cautiously.

"Uh, yeah, I... uh... took a sledgehammer to mine back home, remember," Ford admits slowly.

"Wow. Okay. What's... is something wrong? Is it, uh, demon related?" Stan asks, a gulf of dread opening up under his feet. It would almost be okay if he could just throw himself at fixing whatever demonic thing is bothering Ford, he realizes glumly. Nobody expects you to hold down a real job while you're in the throes of rescuing your twin brother from otherwordly forces, right?

"Um," Ford says, clearing his throat. "No, just... you can't... leave me here with him."

"Him?" Stan asks dully, before it hits him. "Wait- what? What? What do you mean, is he- is _he_ being a dick to you?"

"Stan, when is he _not_ a dick?" Ford huffs out. Stan bites his lips together, staring at the bag on the wall.

"You've gotta be kiddin' me," Stan says finally. "You're... Ford, you're his favorite. He likes you."

"I sincerely doubt that man _has favorites_ ," Ford says archly. Stan coughs, choking on the sudden urge to laugh.

"I mean, that is a solid point and all, but uh, come on, Ford. He hates me. It- it would literally make everything worse for everybody if I showed up, and you know it."

The silence on the other end goes on just a little too long for Stan to be comfortable with it. Finally Ford clears his throat.

"You're... you're really not gonna come by again before Ma leaves?"

"Come on, Ford. I'm babysitting your trash demon and keeping the peace, all in one fell swoop," he says coaxingly.

"Ma won't be happy," Ford warns.

"You say that like I've _ever_ made our parents happy," Stan says, leaning against the back of overstuffed loveseat that serves as his couch. "Look. Just... sit around being the smartest person in the room for a couple days. That was always good for makin' the old man happy. An' then you can bitch at me and Sherm about it on the drive back to your creepy little house in Oregon."

"I-I think the kids miss you," Ford adds desperately. Stan winces- it's a low blow and he's sure Ford knows it.

"I think..." Stan trails off, sighing. "The kids are gonna be fine, Ford."

"I really want you to come," Ford says finally, and Stan hisses out a sigh.

"Okay, Ford, I've- fine. Fine. What time do you want to see me?"

"Whenever your shift's over, Stan, I just... it isn't mandatory to attend, it's only that I-"

"I'll see you in... eight hours, Ford," Stan says quickly. "Soon as my workday's over, okay?"

"Okay, Stan," Ford says hopefully. Stan hangs up before he can pretend to still have a job. He puts the phone down carefully, because his first urge was to throw it, and he's been made aware that his first urges in most situations are not... the best.

The bag rustles, and without thinking Stan shoots it a glare. "Shut up. What do you know?"

The bag rustles again, and Stan could almost think there was some sort of intent in the noise. He scoffs.

"Look, buddy, you're gettin' roasted. If you think you can get out of that-"

Rustle-rustle. Stan pauses.

"Did you just... shake your head or something?"

Rustle. Rustle.

"You should do the thing where ya knock for yes and knock twice for no," Stan says automatically, before pursing his lips. An actual moving animate evil clown doll would make for a pretty amazing The Conjuring-style video. Surely it couldn't hurt to just-

"Nope," Stan says, before realizing that he was just... thinking. Thinking his own thoughts, in his own meatbrain.

Stan blinks. Weird way to phrase it, but... he's... stressed. Yeah. Well, naturally. He's just been fired, he's lying to his brothers now about having been fired, apparently, because he can't tell Shermie the truth if Ford doesn't know, and ooh boy he's gonna have to start downsizing and he's going to have to sell his camera and lighting equipment, they're the only things he owns worth actual money and he won't have a computer anymore to actually edit the videos, will he? What'll he tell the kids about why he can't do videos with them anymore? How's he going to explain to the kids that they can't come over any more? Shermie would- Shermie would try to figure something out, Stan realizes, breathing shallowly.

Shermie would try to get Stan a job anywhere, literally anywhere, and pay whatever rent Stan's pay can't cover, and how could Stan do that to Jess and the kids and his own brother, how could he just suck the life out of his own family like-

Stan buries his face in his hands and takes a deep breath. No. Okay. That can't be right. Right? Sherm wouldn't do something that might hurt the kids, even out of love for his brothers. So if Shermie does something, it wouldn't be something that might hurt the kids. So if Shermie decides Stan's worth doing something for, then Shermie wouldn't be wrong.

Stan breathes out slowly. It's not even gonna be an issue. Stan'll just- he'll get a new job. He'll figure something out. Shermie doesn't need to know.

"It's gonna be fine," he tells himself.

There's a rustling at the wall, and then- knock. Knock.

"You shut up," Stan says sternly.

Stan waits out the day, using his phone to look for jobs that are hiring, fumbling with his touchscreen to navigate to jobsites that don't require a resume to apply.

He puts on a clean shirt and pants, and even a tie and shoes that aren't his battered old chucks, brushes his hair with the little Elsa brush Mabel left at his place last time she was here and ties it back at the nape of his neck. He can do it. It's just one dinner.

He thinks about it, then uses the rest of his roll of duct tape to really make sure the demonic bagged clown on the wall is really and truly secure.

"I can handle this," he mutters to himself. "What's the old bastard gonna say? Won't even notice I'm there. I won't have to say shit."

He drives to Shermie's- gas is gonna be a killer now, though, isn't it- and propels himself to the front door with the power of his own personal mantra. Won't even notice me. Won't have to talk at all. Won't even notice me. Won't have to talk at-

The door opens before Stan can reach for the knob, and a whitehaired man with a bushy mustache and dark sunglasses stands there, supported by a cane.

"Stanley," Filbrick says, and Stan freezes. He can't go inside if he's not let inside. He can't- he should have arranged with Shermie or Ford, he should have called ahead, or- or he should have just not come, actually, this was the stupidest thing, he just didn't want to say no to Ford, this-

The twins clamber past Filbrick in the door, bouncing against Stan's front until he scoops them up in a sturdy hug.

"Uncle Stan, come look at my drawing!" Dipper tells him, shaking his arm as he's half-tugged, half-led into the house.

Stan does not look up from kid height once as the twins drag him over to see what they've been up to.


	8. Chapter 8

Dinner might as well have passed in silence, for all Stan paid attention to over the woolly numbness wrapping his body. He's pretty sure he ate whatever it was, though, because Jess doesn't give anybody dessert if they didn't eat dinner, and there's a slice of Shermie's chocolate cake in front of him.

It's normally Stan's favorite, but he feels like he's full of sand. He looks up across the table to Ford, who's got Dipper practically in his lap, and at his sides Jacob and Mabel are on what Stan's going to guess are their second slices, because those two kids love that chocolate cake about as much as he does.

"So Stanford," Ma says from up the table. "You've been up at that little town for what, six years now?"

"Six and a half, Ma," Ford says, glancing up from Dipper's homemade Mothman action ficture- a former Blue Power Ranger who Stan sculpted little wings for. He and Dipper had spent an entire afternoon carefully repainting him together.

Ford really needs to learn how to do that, Stan thinks idly.

"So is there a special lady up there or have you been buried in terror science all this time?" Ma asks, leaning on one elbow.

"Uh, no, Ma, mostly terror science, I've been too busy for stuff," Ford says quickly, stuffing a large forkful of cake into his mouth.

"Ma," Shermie says, massaging the bridge of his nose. He looks tired, Stan thinks vaguely; makes sense, because Shermie's been here with Ma and Pops all day.

"What? I made handsome boys, I want some more pretty grandbabies," she grumbles. "Sheena Forrester- you remember Sheena, don'cha Ford? Tried to teach you boys piano?- has _seven_ grandkids now, and she only had the two kids. I oughta have eleven by that math."

"Ma, it's not a competition," Jess says easily. "You okay with your slice there, Stan?"

"S'fine," Stan says quickly, and puts a little cake in his mouth. It doesn't taste right. It doesn't take like anything.

"Where do you get _eleven_ from?" Filbrick asks wearily, and Stan hates that he was sort of thinking it, too.

"Sherm's got three, and her boy Larry's got three," Ma reasons. "And her Michelle's just had her fourth. So Ford and Stan both owe me four."

"What?" Stan asks, realizing way too late that he's been drawn into it. "Ma, come on-"

"Well, honey, by the time he was your age Shermie and Jess already had Jake and the twins," Ma says, and Ford and Stan meet gazes. Stan thinks he's maybe got a pretty good idea of what Ford's been dealing with all day.

 "Anyway, boys, any girl'd be lucky to have ya," she adds warmly. "Isn't that right, Fil?"

"How am **_I_ ** supposed to know what any girl'd think about 'em?" Filbrick asks. Ma elbows him and gives him a pointed look. Stan glances at Ford again, who's equally puzzled.

"I mean," Filbrick says slowly, as if he's reading his words off a cue card. "You're... right. Couple of... men like yourself."

"Um," Ford says.

"Stable guys. Ford with his house and Stan with his job," Filbrick says carefully. "Good, stable providers."

Stan puts his fork down, feeling far too hysterical to even pretend to eat. "Stable providers?"

"Look, Ma, let's not- let's- let's not," Shermie says, glancing uneasily down the table.

"Nonsense," Ma says, waving an empty espresso cup around. "Look at them! Handsome."

"Thanks, Ma," Ford says softly.

"Dedicated, too," Ma says, pointing at each of her sons. "Takes dedication to build a doomsday device, Ford, and it takes dedication to stay workin' at a job ya hate just so's you can be responsible, Stan. Although, Stan, it does sound like you got Ford's share of common sense when it's put a certain way."

Stan and Ford both groan and squirm, which- if Shermie and Jess's concerned faces are any sign- doesn't go unnoticed.

"Uncle Ford, you built a doomsday device?" Jacob asks, scandalized.

"You did, really?" Dipper asks, looking up at him with an expression that's a little too close to total admiration.

"Just, uh, a little bit," Ford mumbles. "Ma, come on, let's talk about anything other than my, uh, attractiveness to future mates, okay?"

"Oh, fine," Ma huffs, before turning brightly towards Stan. "You know who your father saw the other day, dear?"

"Don't," Filbrick says flatly, which Ma ignores.

"That lovely McCorkle girl you used to be so sweet on! Isn't that nice?"

"I, uh, it's... it's pretty nice," Stan says thickly, drumming his fingers on his knee below the table.

"Sara," Filbrick warns.

"And guess where he ran into'er?" Ma continues, oblivious to the sound of Filbrick's voice. "Up at the VA! She works there!"

"Oh, wow, that's, uh," Stan says, shooting a dirty look at Ford for abandoning him in this particular trench. "She like, uh, she a nurse or-"

"No sir, she's _Doctor_ McCorkle now," Ma says happily. "You know, and she's single? Have you two kept up since you were kids, Stanley?"

"No, Ma," Stan admits, swallowing drily. A _doctor_. Wow.

"You oughta catch her up, then! You know, working women like that- present company excluded, of course," Ma adds quickly, giving Jessica a nod, "Workin' girls like her'd probably like the idea of, you know, like a house husband, somebody to watch the kids and do arts and crafts. You could quit your job and raise the kids."

Stan bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

"Sara, Stan's a man," Filbrick says, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "He doesn't wanna quit his job to raise kids. He's got his pride, don't humiliate him by suggestin' it."

"Filbrick, raising kids isn't inherently humiliating," Jess says, a touch sharply. "And both of you, please stop. If Stan wants to do something, it's his decision to do it or not."

"This whole thing is ridiculous," Ma protests. "Of course Stan wants to raise him and McCorkle's kids, he'd be perfect at it."

Stan gets up before he has an excuse prepared; the other adults at the table gape at him for a moment, before he flees to the back porch. Mabel looks up from her tablet long enough to ask if Uncle Stan's going to have babies now, and then Stan's outside, unable to hear anything else.

He puts his head in his hands and focuses on breathing.

The door behind him opens and closes, the footsteps too heavy and hesitant to be the kids.

"This was stupid, Ford," Stan mutters. "I shouldn'ta come. You shoulda let me stay home."

There's a pregnant pause, and Stan's stomach curdles as he realizes who it is.

"Your mother," Filbrick says slowly, "is trying to make me talk to you."

Stan swallows.

"Your little girlfriend's not a medical doctor," Filbrick says, his voice quiet. "Ran inta her in the lobby. I was waitin' on this fella I talk to. She works with'im, they're both shrinks."

Stan really, really wishes he could just bury himself in the ground forever right now.

"Your mother told me all you kids need shrinks." Filbrick shuffles his feet. "Made it pretty clear whose fault it was that all of you do."

Stan doesn't know if he could speak right now, even if he could think of anything to say.

"I dunno. It didn't..." Filbrick took a deep breath. "So this shrink I talk to up at the VA tells me about stuff. Stress. PTSD. He tells me guys like me get it from seein' combat sometimes, but, uh. Sometimes havin' t'live with someone like me spreads it around."

Stan glances over. His father's still standing, and he wears the same ugly brown polyester pants he always did, and his brown leather shoes are a little scuffed but he's probably been polishing the same pair religiously for fifty years, at least.

"This PTSD thing, it isn't something I'd wish on anybody. And, uh. I wouldn't have... wanted. To see you kids with it. I was glad you and your brother didn't ever go to Afghanistan like that Crampelter kid. I guess I thought you wouldn't'a had to deal with what I got, if you kept outta the military." Filbrick moves a little in place. Stan chances a peek up at him, and he's got his glasses off, wiping them down with a handkerchief.

"I did a lot wrong by you boys. I tried to be better than your grandfather; I think I mainly... wasn't. I don't know that I understand all of what this shrink's been sayin', but. I think he's right when he says you kids deserved something different than what you got."

Filbrick moves, extending a hand like he's about to lay it flat on Stan's shoulder or the top of his head, and seems to think better of it, folding his arms across his chest instead.

"I fucked you boys up," he says quietly. "Maybe sometimes I thought I was toughening you up, making your lives hard because the rest of the world is even harder, but I think... mostly I knew I wasn't doin' jack shit but takin' it out on you kids the fact that I couldn't get right with myself. And everything good any of you boys ever did was in spite of what kinda father I was."

Stan doesn't want to hear it. It's the kind of thing Shermie's been saying forever, the kind of thing his therapist's been saying for two-three years now. It feels weird and unsettling to hear it out of Filbrick's mouth.

"I guess what I'm tryin' to say is that I'm sorry," Filbrick says. "And I don't know how any of you puts up with me."

"Oh," Stan says softly, his throat tight. And then, because he feels like he's expected to say something else, "Okay."

"I am real proud of you, Stan," Filbrick adds. "I know I ain't got the right to be, but I am. You're a good uncle and a good brother. You do right by this family. You always have." He shifts. "I'm sorry I ever made you think you didn't."

"Oh," Stan says again.

"Your mother and I really are proud of you about the job thing," Filbrick says. "I know I never gave you a lick of guidance to figure out what you might do or might wanna do. We both think it's impressive how you work so hard and still got the time to make them little, uh, the little shows on the internet."

"Ohhh," Stan says quietly, burying his face in his hands. "Uh. Thanks."

Filbrick hesitates, then clears his throat.

"Good talk," he says, clears his throat again, and hobbles back inside, shutting the kitchen door behind him.

Stan feels a hysterical urge to laugh bubble up in his chest.

"What the fuck was that," he whispers to himself, and then he really does laugh.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Shermie snags Stan on his way out the front door, guilt and concern mixed evenly on his older brother's features.

"You okay, Stan?" Shermie asks softly, and Stan nods a little too quickly. "Stanley, listen, I'm... I'm so sorry that was such a mess. Look, after this, let's see if you can get a long weekend off work, okay? You and me and the kids can go camping again."

"Ford oughta do it," Stan corrects, giving Shermie a smile that doesn't feel too phony. "Ford _needs_ to do a Pines Family Campout."

"Sure," Shermie says tentatively, offering back a small smile. "I bet the kids would love that."

"I know they would," Stan says, feeling a little more sure of himself. "And it'd be so good for Ford, just a few days out in the woods with you and the kids."

"Yeah," Shermie says, looking slightly puzzled. "I mean, you... you love camping with us, too, so."

"Yep." Stan isn't sure where this conversation's going, but Shermie's right. Stan always did love camping with him and the kids. Stan can feel his smile slipping, so he pats Shermie on the back. "I gotta go, Sherm."

"Yeah, I won't force you to stick around this circus any more," Shermie sighs. "Goodnight, Stan. I love you."

Stan's throat goes dry, and he glances back at Shermie again as he opens his car door. "Love you too, Sherm."

Stan speeds home. The unsettling feeling of being too-solid and disconnected follows him all the drive long from Shermie's house to his little apartment, and he fumbles so badly with the keys to his door that he almost bursts into tears right there in the hallway. He hustles himself inside like there's something behind him, slamming the door shut and pressing his back to it as he forces himself to breathe.

 _Oughta call Dr. Witter_ , he thinks blindly. This is the kind thing she wants to know about. He's supposed to call her if he's feeling like this.

He's gonna have to pack up all the stuff he keeps here for the kids and give it to them.

Stan's heart is racing; he's not sure why, because he's barely done anything that even _looks_ like it could be exercise in the past week. It feels like his heart is going to break out past his sternum, xenomorph-style. He tries desperately to think of what Dr. Witter would say; he doesn't think he can keep it together long enough to dial her number.

A good son would have forgiven his dad.

Stan inhales sharply, screwing his eyes shut.

All those years Ford's been wearing himself ragged because he didn't have anybody to count on, because he didn't have family, because his family was _occupied_ with Stan.

Stan's keys hit the floor and he presses the heels of his palms against his face, just under his cheekbones.

There's a way to fix this.

"I can still fix this," he repeats, lacing his hands into his hair, even though he's not really succeeding with making his inner voice sound like Dr. Witter, but it doesn't sound like himself either, so it's still an improvement. "I can still fix this."

Good, he tells himself in his not-quite-Doctor-Witter voice. Good. Get a couple of boxes and a marker so you can write the kids' names on their boxes. Start now. Start tonight. Put a box together for your brother and Jessica, too, you don't want to throw away your dishes and cookware but you know you won't have anywhere to put it and you're not likely to get a place where you can use it again. Let's be reasonable here, you have a GED and a resume full of shitty entry-level jobs that never last more than a year; you'll be lucky to make enough to live out of the back of your car.

But we both know that's not what you're gonna do, is it? Should leave Ford the car. He doesn't have one. You're not gonna need it.

Stan stops mid-step, a sharpie dangling from his fingers on the way to the big closet where he keeps random shit like boxes and luggage and wrapping paper. The last bit doesn't sound at all like what Dr. Witter would say.

It sounds exactly like what she told him to call her about.

Stan swallows thickly. She _did_ tell him to call when he starts feeling a certain kind of way or thinking about certain stuff.

She's not going to want to get a call after ten on a weeknight.

She told him. She _told_ him to call. She said she wanted him to call if he started with that stuff again.

What's she gonna say? She can't fix you being stupid and lazy and a screw-up.

It's not about fixing. It's that she _told_ him to call her if he thought about doing something that might get him hurt or-

She only said that because Shermie's _paying_ her to say that stuff.

Stan's thumb hovers over Dr. Witter's after-hours contact info, his phone the only light in the room.

Big waste of Shermie's money.

Stan dashes his contact list away with a swipe of his thumb, pulls up a Best of CCR album, and gently sets his phone down in its docking station, the tinny speakers filling the apartment with music as he gets to work filling and labeling boxes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There's a knock on the door. Stan wakes up with a soft groan from his spot on the couch. He looks blearily around for a clock, before realizing that he probably packed it up in the Sherm-and-Jess box. He straightens his shirt, makes a game attempt at pawing his hair flat, and shuffles over to the front door, his bones creaking ominously in a way that suggests old age will not be kind to him. He's glad he at least thought to take his contacts out before he fell asleep last night, but he's just in no kind of mood to go put them in or find his glasses before he opens the door.

"Yeah?" Stan asks raggedly, just as he opens the door.

He blinks, eye-level with a broad chest covered in a blurry Nirvana shirt.

"Hey... kitten," the blond man wearing it says, trailing off a little as he glances over Stan's shoulder at the wreck of what used to be Stan's place. "Is... this a bad time?"

"I'm moving," Stan says flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How... how did you find this address, Jimmy."

"Google," the older man says sheepishly, waggling his fingers and typing an invisible keyboard. "Also, uh, your Amazon wishlist has your address showing for delivery stuff, so, uh, you might wanna take that down-"

"You're so fuckin' creepy," Stan says, massaging his temples. "What is it that you _want_ , Jim?"

"Just to talk, if you... if _you_ want to talk," Jimmy says cautiously, lowering his hands. "Hey, uh, Stan, not to be a huge fuckin' hypocrite, but are... you okay?"

Stan drags his hands down over his face, before sighing and making what's probably a bad decision.

"Come inside, I'll dig out the coffeemaker."


	9. Chapter 9

Stan's not sure but he's got a few suspicions as to why Shermie insisted the three of them drive up to Oregon in his car instead of Stan's. It's not the minivan, but the minivan would have had more space and been more comfortable, so Stan's not exactly happy about it.

He's spotted Shermie glancing over at him- he knows Shermie's _seen_ the ring of hickeys sucked bruise-red around his throat- but his brother is avoiding the topic, which... which is a fucking relief, to be honest.

Ford hasn't noticed. Stan can't really imagine Ford _would_ notice. Ford's been jotting notes down in a notebook (one of Jacob's, a light blue floppy wide-ruled thing with baseballs dotting the front) ever since he got in the car, occassionally pestering Stan or Shermie about what they remember of the clown-corcism, the trip into Ford's "mindscape," and any behavior the clown doll's exhibited since then. The doll in question is firmly packed away in its garbage bag, which is wrapped in newspaper to muffle any noises it might make, which is zipped into a backpack, which has been rolled into a sleeping bag. Ford insisted on tossing it into the trunk for the trip up to Gravity Falls; everyone agreed to get that thing as far as possible from the kids, and also that Ford's place probably has a big enough yard to start a bonfire.

The weather is noticably colder and grayer the further north they go; Stan's mood plummets even further as he starts picking at how the initial reunion with Ford went. He can't believe it was only a week ago that he'd first started getting Ford's weird messages and saw his postcard in the mail.

"It just doesn't make sense," Ford mutters in the backseat, his pen scratching the surface of the paper.

"What doesn't make sense, Stanford?" Shermie asks mildly, turning the music down.

"This prolonged silence," Ford replies, glancing over at them. "Surely Bill knows we're going to destroy him, and yet he hasn't- he hasn't _done_ anything about it."

"He's stuck in Bobbles," Stan says, forehead against the window as they pass a sign, **WELCOME TO OREGON!** "It's not like he can do anything. I mean! He tried to bite me through the bag, but-" He shrugs.

"I'm worried that maybe Ma didn't put Bill in the clown, is all," Ford says, looking down. "Even with Bill unable to actively possess anyone anymore, he should still have the ability to manipulate the senses and interact with the mindscape, even if it might be limited due to the terms of Ma's deal with him. It's always been his way; he taughts and gloats and... he hasn't..." Ford trails off, looking thoughtfully at Stan, and Stan raises an eyebrow at him.

"So who's in the clown?" Stan asks, blinking. "You don't think it's Ma in there, do you?"

"No, no, gosh. No," Ford says quickly. "For one, I don't believe there's any version of Bill that would have used the word 'tinkle' in any context."

"Oh, thank goodness, I'd hate to have to try to perform an exorcism on Ma," Shermie says fervently. Stan wrinkles his nose, nodding in agreement after a brief, colorful mental image.

"Yes, that... would be unpleasant in the extreme," Ford says, frowning. "No, I'm just... wondering. Bill's capable of some truly insidious mental manipulations- he was affecting my actions in Gravity Falls for years before I discovered him, or... was allowed to discover him. Bill was- is fascinated with the concept of human suffering. He liked making people hurt themselves, he liked-" Ford clears his throat. "He was good at finding ways to excuse the cuts and bruises I'd find on myself. It was a game to him." He taps his pen against the back of Stan's chair. "Has, um, has either of you been... experiencing strange thoughts, or intrusive thoughts, or any urges to do things that seem, I don't know, like they're really good ideas but they're actually quite harmful?"

"Nothin' you wouldn't expect after the past few days," Shermie says seriously, drumming his fingers against the wheel. "Nothin' about hurting myself or anything like that. Just, ah, you know, worrying about the kids and about Jess and about you guys."

Stan frowns out the window, folding his arms across his chest.

"Stan, this, uh, this is the part where you also reassure me," Ford says uneasily.

"Stanford, I'm-" Stan sighs, massaging the side of his nose a little. "Stanford, I can't say that."

"Why not?" Ford presses. "Stan, it's- it's simple, really, anything unnatural that you, that you don't normally-"

"What's that supposed'a be, Ford?" Stan snaps. "You know I'm crazy, right, you know that Sherm's been paying this therapist for me because I'm fucked up, okay? So you can't just ask me if I've been thinking weird thoughts or, or, or wanting to do weird shit, or wanting to fucking slit my wrists, Ford, because that ain't all that unusual for me, okay? You might as well ask me if I _don't_ want to hurt myself, because that'd be a whole hell of a lot weirder, alright?"

The silence that follows Stan's outburst makes him want to jump out of the car right then and there; the only reason he doesn't is because he _knows_ that's not what he's supposed to do right now, _Ford_.

"Stan?" Ford asks quietly. "Stan, um, what happened to your neck?"

"Fucked somebody," Stan mutters sullenly.

"And the act of, of- of coitus resulted in what looks like some kind of rope burn?" Ford asks, his voice shaking.

"It does when the guy's a biter," Stan snaps. "It's a sex thing, Ford, _you_ wouldn't get it."

"Alright, you two," Shermie says sharply, swerving the car three lanes over to take an exit none of them were expecting to take.

"What the hell, Sherman, where are we going?" Ford asks, and Shermie peers out the window at a passing sign.

"We're going... to Applebee's," he decides, his voice thick with emotion. Stan feels sick at the sound, his guts churning painfully with the realization that his big brother's really that upset and it's really his fault, because of what he said.

"Sorry, Sherm," Stan mutters softly.

"Don't be," Shermie says, eyes trained forward.

"Sherman, I-I don't think we should stop for dinner here," Ford says desperately, and Shermie hums in agreement, nodding a little.

"We're gonna have to stop here for a bit, Stanford," he says simply, pulling into the Applebee's parking lot and unbuckling his seatbelt once the car's parked and off. He turns to look at Stan, and Stan hates the glimmer of tears behind Shermie's glasses, the way his hand shakes slightly as he holds his phone out. "Stanley, call Dr. Witter. I think you need to talk to her right now."

"I don't need to talk to Dr. Witter," Stan says, looking away. "I'm fine, Sherm, let's just- let's just get this over with, okay?"

"You're not fine," Shermie says, his voice cracking again. "You haven't been fine since you were a kid, Stan, but you're not you-fine either, and you can't act like Jess and the kids wouldn't notice, you can't act like _I wouldn't_ notice that you're not okay, so please, for _us_ , please call Dr. Witter. You're supposed to call her when you're thinkin' about that kinda thing, Stan."

"I can't call her every day, Shermie," Stan says quietly. "I can't call her all the time. Look, we can't- we can't do this right now, Shermie, we've got Ford's doomsday device and his clown demon, can't we just- can't we just focus on what's important right now and just, I dunno, deal with this later?"

"Stan," Shermie begs. "Look, you and me, right? We'll take a few days off work, just the two of us, we'll go up to LA and check out that studio tour you were looking at, we'll have a great time, Stan, just- please, just do this one thing, Stan, that's all I ask, just talk to her right now while it's- while you're-"

"I don't-" Stan presses the heel of his palm against his face, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. He's hyperaware of Ford's eyes on him, his twin's anxious expression reflected in the visor mirror. "It doesn't matter, Sherm, we've got more important things to worry about right now, can we just-"

" _Nothing_ is more important to me than my family, Stan," Shermie insists. "That's you, you knucklehead. _Please_ , Stan."

"Shermie, I-" Stan inhales deeply. "Shermie, she can't help me. Okay? It's... it's fine. She can't fix me, so just- just drop it, Sherm."

"No," Shermie says simply, sniffling. "She can help you, Stan. She has helped you, and she will help you, you just need to talk to her about this stuff you've been thinkin' about. You gotta, Stan, you know you gotta."

"No, Sherm, I don't gotta," Stan groans, burying his face in his hands. "Just drop it already, Sherm, okay? I'm- I'm not gonna do anything, I know better than to do anything, okay? But I mean-" his voice breaks, and he does give in to the urge to laugh helplessly, just a little bit. "But what's the _point_ of tryin', Sherm, what's the actual point of _not_ doing anything? I'm the biggest fuckup in our entire fucking family, I can't even keep an _easy_ job, I- I'm just this, this temporary sack of meat that's just sucking the life out of everybody I care about so honestly _what would the point even be to-"_

"Stanley," Ford says, squaring his shoulders in the backseat. "Stan, what- what you just said, listen, what you just said about being, ah, a temporary meatsack- Stan, that's Bill talking, that's how he talks, that's him, that's how he referred to us, that how he referred to me. Stan, it's not you thinking these thoughts, it's really Bill, so- so that's good, Stan, because- see- you're not really thinking this, it's him and it's his fault and this will be over soon because we'll destroy him and it won't- it won't happen anymore."

Stan bites his lip so hard he tastes copper, and he doesn't shake it off when Ford tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder.

"What do you say, Stan?" Ford asks desperately. "If- if you do like Shermie says and call this doctor, and it's really all you, then she'll know that, and she'll know how to fix that because it's her area of expertise. And if I'm right- which I am, seeing as I'm, I'm the only expert in this car on what it feels like to have him in your head, because he did that to me too, Stan, he did it to me, too- and if this is all just Bill, then it'll go away, won't it? It'll stop because he's gone and you won't-" Ford's voice breaks, his hand tightening on Stan's shoulder. "You won't even understand how you felt so bad, or how you let it go on for so long."

"Well," Shermie says, and Stan's totally fucked because he can hear the tears in Shermie's voice, if he looks over at his big brother now he will start crying. "Well, Stan, uh, you can't- you can't argue with that, right? Ford's the expert on this, apparently."

Stan puts his face in his hands. He _knows_ they're wrong, the same way he _knows_ that he can't possibly deserve what they're saying, what they feel, what the kids feel-

"Give me the phone," he says hoarsely. He sniffles loudly, pulling up Dr. Witter's contact on Shermie's cellphone, and steps outside so he can call her in private.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan's legs are sore from sitting on the pavement of the Applebee's parking lot for so long, and his toes and fingers and ears and nose are all numb from the cold. He asks if he can sit in the back for the rest of the drive up and Ford jumps to move, to give Stan his seat, and Stan's just too tired and wrung out to even think about it.

The warmth of the car's heater brings feeling back into his body in needlelike prickles. Shermie has the music back on, and it's not nearly loud enough to disguise the sniffling noises coming from the trio of grown men in the car.

They're entering a deep forest when Stan tries to speak, can't, and clears his throat a couple of times.

"This Bill guy makes you feel like that, Ford?"

"Made," Ford says quietly. "Yes."

"I'm gonna be so glad to see that thing burn," Shermie says, and sniffs a bit. "Stan, you, uh, you said something earlier about your... job?"

"Mm," Stan grunts, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the back of Shermie's seat. "I, uh. I got fired the other day."

It's silent for a few seconds.

"This is my fault, isn't it?" Ford asks.

"No," Stan sighs. "It's really not. I was already on thin ice, Ford, and I fucked up with my callouts."

"You wouldn't have called out if it wasn't for me," Ford sniffs, and Shermie sighs.

"Fellas, let's... let's just try to keep an even keel for right now, okay? We're almost there."

The drive is quiet for a few more minutes before Shermie hisses sharply.

"I'm starving," he says suddenly. "Holy shit, when did we eat? We- we did not eat, did we?" he demands.

"Uh, yeah, I guess we didn't," Stan says slowly. "I mean, we're kinda- not really near anything until we hit the town, though, so-"

"There's a diner right by me," Ford says. "It's, uh, it's called Greasy's."

"Sounds like a dive," Shermie says, delighted. "Let's _go_. You fellas ready to instagram me eating diner food?"

"No," Ford says, sounding offended, and Stan stifles a giggle despite himself.

Ford's directions are somewhat rambling and unhelpful, and Stan's attempts to use Maps to give him directions peters out after the service drops one too many times- once they cross into the town's borders, the location service keeps trying to insist that they're in the South Pacific and that it'll take several weeks to get to the diner if they swim. Eventually, though, they spot a sign, and after some jostling with one another they manage to pile out and stomp through the crunching snow to get inside.

The entire diner full of people- which, granted, isn't a lot of people- looks up at them, and Stan almost has to laugh- three burly, nearly-identical Pineses at once is a whole lot of Pines to inflict on a small town diner. There's a second or two of awkward silence that stretches out far too long before the waitress pipes up.

"Wow! Not every day we get so many handsome strangers all in one shot!" she says warmly, and just like that the spell's broken, the lumberjack she's serving grumbling good-naturedly at her.

"You live down the street, why doesn't anybody know that?" Shermie hisses under his breath at Ford.

"I prefer to cook for myself, if you must know," Ford says archly.

"Cough, bullshit, cough," Stan says drily, not even bothering to pretend-cough. Ford gives him a tiny shove, and he gives Ford a tiny shove back.

"Come on, you two," Shermie says good-naturedly, and it's warm enough in the diner that Stan almost feels alright.

The three of them are about halfway through their meals- Special of the Day for Shermie, chicken tenders and fries (being eaten with a fork and knife) for Ford, buttermilk shortstack (with a whipped-cream smiley face courtesy of the thoroughly charmed waitress, Susan) for Stan- when the door opens and a thin, jittery-looking blond guy steps in. Ford's eyes light up- that's the first thing Stan notices- and the blond's eyes widen with either shock or anger, which probably isn't a good sign.

"Fiddleford! You- you're _still_ in town?" Ford asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Stanf-" the man starts, taking several aggressive steps forward before he stops, gaping at the trio of brothers at the table. "Stanford, you- ah-"

"Howdy," Stan says around a mouthful of pancake.

"Fiddleford, is it?" Shermie says pleasantly, putting his fork down. "Ford's told us all about you! Only good things, of course!"

"What," Fiddleford says hollowly, before looking over at Ford. One of his eyes is twitching behind his glasses. "What."

"Fiddleford, these are my brothers, Sherman and Stanley," Ford says stiffly.

"I, ah. Oh," he says weakly in response, shooting Ford a glare. "Yes. I _certainly was_ aware that you had _at least_ one brother. P-pleased t'meet y'all, I'm sure."

Stan catches himself thinking that 'flustered and annoyed' is kind of a cute look on the guy, before furiously stuffing a forkful of pancakes into his mouth to squash down the feeling, and then coughing because he tried to shovel them in without chewing.

"The feeling's mutual," Shermie says, giving Stan a curious glance before patting his back a little more hard than strictly necessary. "You alright there, Stanley?"

"Geddoff," Stan wheezes, putting his fork down and draining his glass of ice water. "So, ah- so _you're_ the famous assistant friend Ford mentioned, huh?"

"Unfortunately," Fiddleford says shortly, turning to Ford. "What're you doin' here, Stanford?"

"I do _live_ here," Ford says, frowning. "What are you doing here? You left over a month ago, I- I assumed you went home to your wife and son in Palo Alto."

Fiddleford's eyes glaze over slightly, a frozen look of panic on his face. "It's, ah- it's February already?"

"It's almost March," Shermie says helpfully, a thoughtful look on his face. Stan pushes a few wedges of pancake into a puddle of syrup on his plate. The more he talks the more Stan can totally see how someone like this would have a lot in common with Ford- good for being friends in college and for a regular life in general, bad for the isolated, terrorized wreck Ford was just a week ago.

"My, my, where does the time go," Fiddleford says faintly, and Stan... Stan kinda feels bad for him.

"You wanna stick around for dinner?" Shermie asks, propping his chin on his hand. "On me, alright? Any friend of Ford's is a friend of ours."

"No, I- no, thank you," Fiddleford says, looking distantly at the window. "Y'know what, I just- I just realized I have a very, ah, very urgent phone call to make. I-I'll see ya'll around though."

He beats a hasty retreat back outside to his beat up little car outside. Shermie hums a little, before turning back to his food.

"I like that guy. He seems nice."

"He abandoned me and the project after-" Ford starts sharply, then frowns. "After- he was sucked headfirst into the portal and saw Bill's realm."

"For fuck's sake, Ford, and you're _mad_ at him about leaving?" Stan asks, and Ford slinks down lower in his seat, blushing.

"He seems nice," Shermie repeats. "We should check in on him with Ford before we head back to California, Stan."

"Uh, okay," Stan says, and Shermie points at Stan's phone.

"Take a picture of me eating to send to the kids?" he asks, and Stan shrugs and snaps a few photos of Shermie mugging for the camera, pointing down at his plate.

Ford barely touches his chicken after that, drumming his fingers distractedly against the scuffed vinyl tabletop as he nurses his coffee.


	10. Chapter 10

"This is gonna be bad," Shermie says reflectively, gazing up at Ford's terrifying murder-cabin. "This is gonna be so bad, isn't it, fellas?"

"It's gonna be exactly that bad," Stan confirms woodenly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ford mutters, sniffing.

"Like if you crossed an episode of X-Files over with an episode of Hoarders," Stan adds, and Shermie groans.

"That's uncalled-for," Ford says stubbornly.

 _"Is it?"_ Stan demands, and Ford slinks down in his seat. Shermie nods grimly.

"You said the biggest problem is in the basement, kid. How big is this problem?"

"The entire universe is in danger," Ford says, wringing his hands.

"The doomsday device looks about fifteen feet tall, maybe about that size across," Stan interrupts. "A little smaller than the one we saw in Ford's headscape."

"Mindscape," Ford corrects.

"That's a pretty big basement, then," Shermie says mildly. "Let's take a look."

"It's really gross in there," Stan warns.

"I'm prepared for gross," Shermie says.

"I- I don't know if gross is the word for-" Ford stammers.

"What little food you had in there was covered in mold," Stan says flatly. "It's cold in there and it looks like you've purposefully bathed the inside of your rooms with dust. It's so cobwebby it looks like the set of the Addams Family."

"Thank you, Stan. That does sound gross," Shermie says.

"It looks like you died and went to hoarder hell. The inside of that house," Stan says, leaning forward, "is literally, exactly, the kind of thing Ma warned us about when we were kids. It looks like the kind of place that you turn a pillow over and find a mummified pigeon. It looks like a science experiment had a baby with the inside of a dumpster. It looks like-"

"Cut it out, Stan, it's not like you're a clean person or anything," Ford snaps.

"-if the evil circus guy from that dinosaur movie was a house, that's what Ford's place looks like," he continues ruthlessly. "If the nasty meat-dimension from Stranger Things ate the Nutty Professor, that's your house."

"I have a pretty clear idea of what we're doin' here, Stan, that's enough," Shermie says, so Stan shuts up.

"Just keep in mind, I was actively being hounded by a literal demon for... some time before I left here a week ago," Ford warns as they climb out of the car and start up onto the front porch. "I was not living in some kind of... hoarder hell before that started."

"Okay, Ford," Shermie says. Ford exhales, kicking through some muddy snow until he gets to the door and unlocks it. The three of them step inside, and Shermie sighs. " _Ford_."

"It won't be like this later," Ford says. "It'll be fine later."

"Oh, Ford," Shermie tuts, pointing out the crossbow. "What's this about?"

"It's a crossbow," Ford mutters.

"He threatened to kill me with it if I didn't take my contacts out," Stan supplies helpfully.

"Don't tell Ma," Ford says quickly.

"Oh... guys," Shermie groans quietly. "Alright. Skip the two-dollar tour and take me straight to the basement."

The stairwell down gives Stan the creeps- _gum in his mouth, blood on his face, Ford shrinking away from him, from the monstrous thing Stan did to him_ \- but nothing happens to them on the way down, and nothing happens to them when Ford opens the door and lets him and Shermie into the room. Shermie doesn't even say anything, which- well, it's probably a Sign of Things To Come. Stan and Ford exchange awkward glances while they wait for their older brother to pass judgement.

"Alright, Ford," he says finally.

"Alright, Sherm?" Ford says timidly.

"If there's anything down here you might miss, take it upstairs," he says blandly.

"Um, why?"

"Ford, did any part of my statement welcome questions?" Shermie asks, turning and giving them both the single most intense, humorless smile either of them has ever seen on his face. Stan can't help but feel bad, even if Ford kind of did this to himself here. Shermie catches the looks on their faces and sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Stanford, everything in this room is going to be destroyed. If you have anything you don't want to meet that fate, you're gonna have to take it upstairs."

"How're you gonna do that?" Ford squeaks, and Stan instinctively reaches out to steady his shoulder. Ford bats his hand away, looking confused to see it in his personal bubble, and Stan shrugs.

"Never you mind, Stanford, I have my ways," Shermie says briskly. "You have exactly one hour to get everything you absolutely positively need out of this basement."

"One hour?" Ford yelps.

"Stan will help you if you ask nicely," Shermie adds.

"What!" Stan asks, and Shermie makes a face at him until he sighs. "Yeah, sure."

"But- there's no way I'll get everything out in time," Ford says, visibly agonized.

"Yeah, Ford, that's the entire point. If it's not something you'd take with you to escape a fire, it's not something you'll need to take with you now," Shermie reasons. "Come on, kid, don't make me shorten it to ten minutes. One hour. Start packin'."

Stan and Ford exchange a quick look, and Stan reaches over and gives his mortified twin another attempt at a comforting pat. Ford accepts it mutely.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It ends up being easier than Ford thinks. They leave the obvious garbage behind- Stan occasionally kicking drifts of empty, discarded soda and beer cans into fun, loud piles- and try to focus on stuff that looks important. Shermie spends the hour upstairs, on the phone, while they try to figure out what's worth saving and what isn't. Ford's laptop has a railway spike through the monitor, but Stan figures they might be able to salvage the hard drive. There's a pile of charred-looking external hard drives and thumb drives that are probably not salvageable, and Ford doesn't try to get his hands on any of them, so Stan leaves that alone. There's piles and piles of notepaper- Ford's handwriting going from too-perfect cursive, like he'd been practicing what to 'officially' write in his journals, to jagged, harsh print in all caps, like a man screaming, scribbled-over with drawings of staring eyes. Stan picks up one-

~~**-monster MONSTER he can't forgive you he'll neveR FORGIVE-** ~~

-and he crumples it quickly before Ford can see. Maybe he and Ford have a little more in common than he likes to think.

"We should," Ford says quietly, stuffing books into a box from upstairs. "We should uh. We ought to retrieve my other two journals."

"Change your mind about keepin' 'em?" Stan asks, and Ford shrugs.

"Maybe. Maybe I should just burn them," he says softly. "Six years of research. It all ended up worthless in the end, anyway."

"Aw... I dunno, Ford, maybe not," Stan reasons, opening a drawer of what seems to be mostly office supplies. He digs through it, just in case there's something unique or valuable mixed in with the stapler and pens and jars of paperclips. "Look, you learned lots about other stuff, didn't you? Maybe the non-doomsday shit is worth keeping."

"I'm afraid too much of my research was tainted by Bill's influence to be sure," Ford says, sighing. "But... you're right, Stanley. You know, there's a sister lab that has a great deal of my backup notes from, uh- from before I built this lab, and a lot of proprietary equipment."

"That's great, Ford! See, you won't be losing everything, and you can still do your weird terror science from your other lab!" Stan says brightly, and Ford shrugs. Stan blows a heavy sigh out of the corner of his mouth. "What's wrong now, man?"

"Fiddleford and I practically lived out of that lab," he replies. "Although we sort of, uh, converted it into a doomsday bunker, at some point-"

"-okay, well, the good news is you two are perfect for each other," Stan says slowly, and Ford rolls his eyes.

"-and there may be an angry alien murderer in cryostasis inside," he adds. Stan picks up a box of staples and throws it at Ford's back. "Ow! What the fuck was _that_ for!?"

"You fucking around with alien murderers and shit!" Stan replies indignantly. "For fuck's sake, Ford!"

"Oh, like you've never done anything like that?" Ford asks, and Stan throws his hands emphatically into the air.

"I have absolutely never had anything to do with alien murderers! Or even any human murderers! What's Ma gonna say?"

"Stop threatening to tell Ma about every mistake I've ever made!" Ford snaps, throwing an empty plastic barrel- the label on it for some off-brand cheeto-style cheese balls. It bounces off Stan's head, adding insult to injury.

"Why not?! Has it like, even occurred to you that maybe you fuck up more than you think you do?" Stan yelps, kicking the cheese ball barrel aside.

"Well, you would _know_ about fucking up, wouldn't you?" Ford yells, and Stan doesn't even have time to point out what an asshole thing that was to say before Ford's face falls and his eyes go huge. "Wait- Stanley, I didn't- I didn't mean it like how that came out."

"You did," Stan says coldly, shutting the drawer and turning to one of the other desks so he doesn't have to see Ford's stupid face. "Of course you did. It wasn't your weird demon boyfriend that time, right?"

"Shut up, Stan," Ford says, and Stan shrugs. "Stan, come on. I meant- look, I was trying to be an asshole, okay, but not that much of an asshole. I just- of course you know when you make mistakes, because you've had people who'd tell you if you did, and I just- nobody's ever told me if I was doing something wrong, so half the time I just never find out until everything blows up in my fucking face, and I never know what I did wrong, and I just- I don't know where to start, Stan, alright? But you've always had people who'd tell you if you fucked up, so you'd know not to do it again, and- and maybe- maybe the last ten years I figured... if I didn't need people who'd tell me when I fucked up, maybe I didn't want it, either, maybe I could just get better without you or anybody else."

"How'd that work out?" he replies archly, and Ford laughs bitterly.

"You know how it worked out, Stan. I just... I didn't want to need anybody, after what happened with you."

"Yeah, well maybe I needed you," Stan huffs, sitting down on the edge of one of Ford's desks. "I didn't try to ruin yer life, Ford, I just- I had dreams, I had stuff I wanted to _be_ , and everybody made it real fuckin' obvious that I wasn't gonna be good enough to make 'em happen, so I had to make everything I wanted be whatever it was _you_ wanted, and then all of a sudden you didn't fuckin' want it anymore, like... like what was the point of me, if you never needed me or even wanted-"

He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "I got pissed, and I may have punched a table like a fucken moron, but I didn't try to break your thing, and I didn't think it was broken when I left it, or I woulda said somethin' to you sooner."

"Yeah, I think I know that," Ford says quietly. "Stan, look, I-" He wrings a handful of typewritten paper in his hands, sighing. "Stan, I think I always knew that."

"Then why'd you fuckin' cut me out like that?" Stan demands.

"Because you didn't even act sorry, Stan! I just- I had two days to think that maybe I'd go somewhere outside of New Jersey, that I'd do something that would change the world, that maybe somebody might think I was smart enough to do it! And then you fucked all that up and you didn't even care that I was embarrassed, that those admission panelists thought I was just some dumbass freak, it was all- oh, great, now we get to be treasure hunters, like you didn't even care that maybe I wanted to do something other than screw around on a boat hoping to get lucky." Ford swipes at his nose with his sleeve. "And if you didn't care about what I wanted or how I felt, maybe you just didn't care about me."

"Ford," Stan sighs into his hands. "I didn't think I was allowed to care about anything _but_ you."

"I'm guessing this is why we're like this," Ford says glumly.

"Yeah, I don't need to be a therapist to figure that out," Stan snorts, dragging his hands down his face. "Ford, I- look, I know being a kid is basically the same as being a dumbass, but- after I left, after you went to college, after all that, why'd you stay gone? Not just from me, but from Sherm and Jess and the kids?"

"Stanley, all this time everybody- everybody got to have you, and you were supposed to be _my_ person, my _one_ person, okay? And they all chose you, and I figured that you wouldn't want to deal with me still being pissed at you, and maybe that they'd all be on your side anyway. And I didn't... if I didn't get to have any brothers or the kids, then..." Ford waved a hand. "Then maybe I needed a different person. And... well, then I moved here, and Bill started showing up, and I didn't feel alone because he told me I was so smart he didn't need anybody else, and I figured that meant I didn't need anybody else either."

"Yeah, real talk, fuck Bill," Stan says vehemently. "But also, Ford, I- I just didn't want to ruin your life any more than I already did. I wasn't... trying to keep the family away from you. And- and look, now you know, okay? They do want you, they adore ya. I'll- I won't get in your way or-"

Ford huffs in frustration, dragging his hands through his hair. "You've missed the point entirely, Stanley. I want them, yeah, but I- I want you. They want you and I want you. I just... I just don't know how to make you see that."

Stan sniffs, resisting the urge to rub his eyes and risk grinding his contacts into them. "Aw, Ford-"

"Hey, you knuckleheads," Shermie calls out from the top of the stairs. "You're down to five minutes, I'm not seein' a lot of terror science shit gettin' moved!"

"Oh, cheese and fucking crackers," Stan swears, and Ford snorts into his sleeve despite himself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Do you know what's gonna happen if we do this?" Shermie asks quietly. The sun almost down and the sky is threatening to spit snow onto the Pines brothers, in a clearing in the woods. There's a shiny metal trash can between them- brand new, if the price tag on the side is any indication. Shermie must have been pretty busy while Stan and Ford were carting Ford's stuff upstairs.

"It might not do anything," Ford says, shrugging. "It might not hurt Bill at all, or it might kill him, or it might just cut him off from this dimension entirely."

"Well, two out of three of these options is good, and the bad option just puts us right where we started," Stan reasons, tossing his lighter from hand to hand. "I like our odds."

"Only one of those options is good, Stan, not having access to this realm doesn't mean Bill can't destroy it, he could just try again in some parallel dimension and then destroy all of reality from there," Ford points out, gazing unhappily down at the struggling backpack in his hands.

"Yeah, maybe, but if he's tryin' to deal with you in any of those alternate dimensions, he's tryin' to deal with all of us," Shermie says gently. "And I don't know about you, buddy, but I can only stand gettin' my ass kicked by the same family so many times before I give up."

"You've never had your ass kicked by an entire family," Stan counters.

"Excuse you, I've had my ass kicked not once but twice by every one of Jess's little cousins," Shermie says, tossing balled-up paper from Ford's house into the garbage can. "Woulda been a third time but she told 'em to quit it."

"Fascinating," Ford mumbles, scratching his chin. "Say, that must be some kind of Southern thing, Fiddleford said he used to beat up his cousin's boyfriends all the time when he was a kid."

"Yeah, I guess so," Shermie shrugs, pouring a liberal amount of lighter fluid into the garbage can. "Alright, Ford, toss the sucker in."

Ford jams it down into the garbage can, and Shermie empties the bottle onto the backpack.

"Got enough gas in there, Sherm?" Stan asks drily.

"Nah, I got another bottle," Shermie says proudly, stuffing the empty one into a garbage bag. "Baby brother, would you do the honors?"

"Yeah, hold on." Stan grabs a paper- graphs on one side, little ballpoint doodles of boats on the other side- and crumples it into a serviceable tube, lighting one end. He holds the lit paper over the can, throwing his shoulders back with a dramatic huff. "Good riddance, you isosceles bastard."

"Equilateral," Ford corrects, rolling his eyes. " _Geometry_ , Stanley."

"Ford, I love ya, but shut the fuck up," Stan says agreeably, and Ford gives his shoulder a light punch.

"You fellas finally gettin' along?" Shermie asks, eyes lit up behind his glasses.

"Nah," Ford says, grinning awkwardly at Stan. Stan can't help but think that maybe there's something to Ford's theory that a lot of his problem was the triangle demon doing stuff to his brain. As the flames lick higher, he can't help but feel better than he has in a long, long time.

Shermie beams at them in the growing orange glow, and Stan stamps his feet to ward off the cold.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The B&B downtown is warm and inviting; Tanya Cutebiker gives them half off their second room and a pamphlet to see the charms of Historic Downtown Gravity Falls, and her teenaged son gives them hot towels and an extremely enthusiastic recommendation for special orders at Dos Hermanos down the block.

"So... we have to fight now," Ford says solemnly.

"Shoot... yeah, you're right," Stan agrees.

"No, you dopes, you just quit fightin' like a minute ago, what's going on?" Shermie asks, blinking owlishly at them. They exchange a mildly devious smile.

"Who gets to bunk with you, Sherman? We can't both bunk with you, there's only two twin-sized beds in here," Ford explains.

"And I ain't sleepin' alone after we burned an actual demon clown to death in the woods, that's how they get ya," Stan says, hands on his hips.

"And the solution is fighting," Shermie confirms, struggling not to smile. "Okay. Well, you guys have my blessing."

"Yeah, so- wait, what?" Ford asks, blinking. Stan snickers as Shermie reaches over and ruffles Ford's hair.

"You two nerds are bunking together. I'm gonna be in my room," he announces. "We'll head over to Ford's place tomorrow morning, alright?"

"Alright," Stan agrees.

"Sure," Ford adds, ducking out of Shermie's reach. "Also, if you're a lawyer you're also a nerd, Sherman, you realize."

"Gasp," he replies flatly, giving the two of them a wink. "Alright, you two, we got an early morning, get to sleep."

Without him in the room, things get awkwardly silent again, even as they change into their mismatched pajamas and climb into the little beds. Stan almost thinks Ford's gone to sleep himself after he turns the light off, but after a heavy sigh Ford rolls over in his bed and throws a lace-covered decorative pillow at Stan's head from across the room.

"What," Stan hisses.

"Stan," Ford says quietly. "D'you like ghosts?"

"Yeah, man," Stan says after a while.

"What about monsters like, weird monsters?" Ford persists.

"Ford, you know I love weird monsters and cryptids and shit," Stan huffs. "You've seen the kind of shit Dipper and I get up to on my youtube channel."

"What about, you know, aliens and stuff?"

"Ford, get to the point," Stan says softly. Ford goes quiet for a moment.

"Stanley, you know, uh- this past week has been really, um. Illuminating."

"That's one way to put it," Stan says tactfully.

"And, uh, after tomorrow... you're gonna go home with Shermie and I'm gonna, I guess, I'll be staying up here," he continues miserably.

"I guess so," Stan says slowly. "Hadn't really thought about it, to be honest. Why?"

"I didn't... I didn't know how much I missed you until I actually got to spend this time with you," Ford mumbles. "I didn't know how much I wanted to hang out with you until we finally started hanging out again. And I didn't think I'd feel this bad about the idea of... of stopping. Even if we're still, uh, sort of... not okay-okay but better-okay, um."

"...go on," Stan says to the ceiling, blinking rapidly in the dark.

"Maybe I want us to be okay-okay," Ford says timidly. "Maybe I want what you and Shermie and Jess have, maybe- maybe I want what the kids have. Maybe I want somebody to tell me when I've fucked up and how to fix it. Maybe... maybe I want to fix it. Maybe I want you to, uh, you know. Come up here and maybe hang out in my house while you figure out what you want to do now that you're not that internet phone help guy anymore."

"Yeah?" Stan asks hoarsely. Must be this weird Oregonian dust getting into his lungs or something. "Like... maybe you don't want to be alone anymore, or whatever?"

"Um... kind of," Ford says, clearing his throat. "Or... maybe I just want my best friend back."

The room is no longer awkwardly silent, although the sound of two grown men trying to pretend neither of them is crying is infinitely more awkward than the silence was.

"I think, uh, you know what? I think... maybe I could be convinced." Stan glances over, and in the dark it's a little hard to tell, but Ford's smile across the tiny guest room is watery and wide.


	11. Chapter 11

The cement truck is already there when they pull up in Shermie's car; Ford makes a squeaking whimper but says nothing else when he sees it.

"I made a few calls yesterday," Shermie explains, putting his car in park. "The local contractors who built your house, the realtor who sold the land to you. Some interesting stuff came up."

"Y-yeah?" Stan asks, when it becomes apparent that Ford won't.

"Yeah, uh, I'm not... like... a geologist or whatever, but I wanted to make sure the ground wouldn't swallow your entire house up if we filled the basement," Shermie says easily, and Ford gulps. "Also, I didn't want to say anything yesterday, but you know a lot of people here are kinda scared of this place?"

"Why do you say that?" Ford asks, blinking, and Shermie and Stan both turn even expressions on him until he squirms. "I mean, is- is it purely cosmetic reasons why they said that, or, you know, was it- was it related to my problem?"

"Little bit of column A, little bit of column B," Shermie allows. "How come half the people responsible for building this place don't remember doin' it, though? Like, I had to pull out epic hardass lawyering to get anybody to even do a search in their archives for ya."

"Well, that-" Ford stops, scratching his chin. "This- actually, this sounds really... weirdly familiar. Oh, drat, I know I wrote this down in one of my Journals-"

"Drat," Stan repeats mockingly, and Ford gives his arm a shove. "Your assistant friend yesterday was, uh- was acting really weird, too."

"Fiddleford?" Ford asks, blinking. "I mean, he's- you know, uh, he- he's a little... Southern?"

"He's a little what?" Shermie barks. "Jessie's Southern, Ford, what's that got to do with anything? Stan's right, though, your friend yesterday was actin' pretty weird. I mean, noticably weird, although I guess I forgive you not noticing due to us havin' just come off a stint of clown exorcism before seein' him."

"Not to mention Stan having some sort of breakdown," Ford mutters, frowning.

"Gosh, Ford, you are just- you are just the most tactful person," Stan tells him, rolling his eyes. "So, what, you think there's something goin' on in town that's... making weird stuff happen?"

"Well, actually!" Ford says brightly, straightening up. "Yes! As a matter of fact, Gravity Falls is intensely weird! I've documented a great number of anomalous occurrences and cryptid activities in the last six years, possibly or possibly not unrelated to the weak spot in reality here that might have a sort of, of, like, a weirdness leak effect, and-"

"This sounds like a great time to segue into a discussion of your work, but ah, so, do you... have copies of your research lyin' around so you can, you know, publish any of this, or at least continue your research?" Shermie interrupts, and Ford deflates, giving Stan a hangdog look.

"I... do. In my Journals."

"Like the one you wanted me to get rid of," Stan supplies helpfully.

"Yep," Ford says, subdued.

"Well, good," Shermie says, opening his door. "You wanna watch these guys pour cement into your basement, bros?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Stan agrees, getting out and letting Ford step out of the backseat. "So are there like, vampires and werewolves and stuff here?"

"I thought there was a colony of vampire bats!" Ford says, after a moment. "They turned out to be fruit bats."

"Hm, that's nice, you know, the kids like bats," Shermie says, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"I thought for sure I was going to turn into a vampire, because one bit me," Ford adds, "but I didn't gain any satisfaction from drinking blood. I drank a lot of spinach and kale smoothies, though!"

"You drank blood?" Shermie asks, and Ford shakes his head nervously.

"I have- certainly not consumed human blood," he says, looking resolutely at the woods.

"There's no way you're makin' me drink a kale smoothie," Stan says flatly, and Ford bobs his head in a nod. "That's it for the vampires, though?"

"I think my mailman might be a werewolf," he offers, and Stan shrugs at him. "And zombies are real! I was temporarily turned into one! Also, ghosts are real."

"I mean, demons are real and psychics are real, because Ma," Shermie reminds him, and he folds his arms, nodding. "So makes sense about the ghosts."

"What else you got around here?" Stan asks curiously.

"Mothman," Ford says proudly. "Also, plaidypuses."

"Platypi," Shermie corrects.

"No, platypi live in Australia, these are-" Ford grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "Plaid platypuses. Plaidypuses."

"It would still be plaidypi, though, wouldn't it?" Stan asks, and Ford sticks his chin out.

"Well, as their discoverer, I get to pick the name," he says, and Shermie and Stan both shrug at that. "They're my favorite. They're very soft and warm and cuddly, and are extremely good-natured, and-"

"Hey, we should bring the kids up here," Shermie says, eyebrows raised. "This uh, plaid... platypus sounds like he's right up Mabel's alley."

"Oh, wow, yeah," Stan agrees, before clearing his throat. "Say, Shermie, uh- you know, I was- I was thinkin', and, me an' Ford were talkin'-"

"Ford and I," Ford corrects, and Stan gives him a gentle but heartfelt punch in the kidney.

"The two of us were talkin'," Stan continues, shaking a fist at Ford. "You know how I don't, uh, I don't got a job currently, and I was- well- d'you think I could, uh, could move up here for a while and help Ford get settled and maybe see if... see if there's anything I can do here, maybe?"

"Stanley Aaron Pines," Shermie says, coming over to stand in front of him. "You know you don't have to ask permission, right? Like- if you want to do something, you don't have to ask me if it's okay to do it?" He puts both hands on Stan's shoulders, giving him a small smile. "Bro, if that's what you want to do, I will do everything in my power to help you do it, alright?"

"Yeah, but- but what about the kids? Their- their routine, and-" Stan says haltingly, and Shermie ruffles his hair.

"Look, we'll just have to come visit you two up here to make sure you're not getting demons or mothmanned to death or anything," he says lightly, and Stan huffs a laugh- over Shermie's shoulder, Ford looks- well, he looks ecstatic, and his mood must be contagious.

"Alright! Then- then I guess it's official, I'm gonna move up here for a bit, Sixer!" Stan barks.

"Yeah, I mean, you're- you're still coming back to California to pack your shit and get your car and everything, though," Shermie adds, and Stan and Ford both nod. "I mean, maybe Ford- maybe you should also head back with us and help Stan pack and all, maybe. Doesn't really feel like I want either of you to spend a lot of time alone right just yet. Anyway! The cement probably won't be dry for a good while, and you're probably not gonna be able to really go up in there for a while. So you'll have time to help Stan out."

"Um, yeah, I think- I think I could do that," Ford says, and Stan swallows tightly.

"I mean, don't worry, I've- I've already done most of the packing anyway, so-"

"You did what now? When did- _why_ did-?" Shermie asks quietly, and Stan shoots Ford a panicked look.

"Um, uh- _distraction!_ " Ford yelps, and Shermie blinks over at him. "Hey! Uh, Sherman, how do- how do you feel about- uh- about-"

"Seeing the sights?" Stan supplies, and Ford nods.

"Yes! Sherman, Stanley, would you two like to see the sights with me?" he asks desperately, and Stan shoots him a thumbs' up when Shermie's back is turned.

"Well, I mean- we might have a little time today, once these guys are out of here," Shermie says, scratching the back of his head. "I can set us up with another night at the B-and-B so we're not drivin' in the middle of the night, I guess. So what kinda sights we talkin' about, then?"

"Well, we probably don't have time to explore the caves or the crashed alien ship," Ford mutters, looking vaguely pleased and thoughtful. "You know what, though, we can probably go to the famous Gravity Falls Picturesque Hanging Cliffs! There's a lot of good hiking and camping and, uh, you know, there's a neat lake with an extremely accursed island on it-"

Shermie shoots Stan an amused look- he knows, Stan realizes, that Stan and Ford were trying to cut that conversation short, but he thinks Shermie's just as glad as Stan is that the two of them are even on the same page like this. Shermie pretend-casually throws his arms around their shoulders, beaming at the sight of the guys pouring cement through the basement window.

Maybe even a little gladder than that, Stan thinks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Back again!" Susan says gleefully, a pencil behind her ear. "Just couldn't stay away, couldja?"

"Nowhere else we'd rather be when it comes to getting lunch within five miles of here," Shermie says cheerfully, giving her a wave. "I expect you're gonna go ahead and see a lot of us over the weekend, Miss."

"Well, don't be a stranger," she says warmly, and Shermie gives Stan an elbow to the ribs as soon as she turns to grab some napkins and cutlery.

"I think she likes ya, Stan," he hisses.

"I think she works for tips and has to be nice," Stan hisses back, and Ford stares blankly at them both before shrugging.

"You boys wanna sit by the window or at the counter today?" she asks, and Shermie points to one of the many empty, clean tables next to the window.

"So," Stan says, once they're all seated and waiting for their water glasses and coffees. "Do, uh- do you think there's any more of that- that Bill guy for us to deal with?"

"Well," Ford says, polishing his spoon with the napkin. "It's hard to say. I haven't had any dreams or, uh, or other types of contact from him since we, uh-"

"Clown-becued him," Shermie says brightly.

"Clown-barbecued him, yes," Ford agrees. "But that's not saying much. How about you, do you feel like- like he's still there, bothering you?"

"Well," Stan says, leaning back. "I mean, I don't think so? He kind of-" Stan huffs a little, vaguely embarassed under both of his brothers' scrutiny. "You know? He kind of... fit in a little too well. So, uh, I mean, I don't know what that- what that says about me, like, as a- as a person, or-"

"It means that he was an insidious influence on human minds, Stanley, it- it doesn't mean _you're_ , like-" Ford trails off, looking down. "I mean, if we get right down to it, I'm the one who fell for his trickery, so if anybody here is- is a bad person, then-"

"If I have to hear either of you two knuckleheads say you're a bad person I'm gonna knock you on your asses and then force you to listen to positive affirmations all afternoon," Shermie threatens, as Susan returns to put their drinks down. "Thank you, sweetie."

"Sure thing, handsome!" she says cheerfully. "Good luck with your positive affirmations! So you boys ready to order?"

"Yeah, uh, Jessie's tellin' me I gotta eat a salad," Shermie sighs heavily. "You guys got a salad?"

"We got a maple bacon fried chicken salad," Susan tells him, and he presses his mouth into a line, nodding faintly.

"Yeah, then, uh- I guess I'll have that," he says, before shooting Stan and Ford a glare. "Don't tell Jessie about the, uh. Maple or bacon or... fried."

"Yeah, then don't tell her that I'm havin' pancakes for lunch two days straight," Stan counters, before shooting Susan a grin. "Shortstack?"

"Shortstack it is, handsome," she agrees. "What about you, sweetie?"

"Um," Ford says, shoulders hunching slightly. "There's a- there's a grilled cheese on the children's menu...?"

"You want that grownup sized?" she asks kindly, and he nods. "Okay, sugar. One grownup grilled cheese. It comes with fries and applesauce, you okay with that?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ford mumbles, and she marks it down on her notepad before trundling off to the kitchen.

"So, uh- so I guess the cement has to dry, huh," Stan says, and Shermie shrugs.

"Seems like. Or- cure, or something. I don't know," he admits freely, before taking a sip of his water. "I mean, the guy said something about the weather being okay for it, so, uh, I guess- I guess it's okay."

"Hm," Ford says, watching Stan load his coffee up with cream and sugar. "Would- would you two, uh, would you mind if I made a couple of phone calls? I, ah, I think I need to check in with Fiddleford and make sure everything's... okay there."

"Fiddleford's the assistant, right?" Stan asks, aiming for casual. Ford shrugs.

"Well- technically, but we were roommates in college, too, along with his wife and another friend of ours- well, to be completely frank, there was a time I would have considered him the best friend I had-"

"You introduced your best friend to us as your assistant?" Stan asks, slightly appalled. "Ford!"

"Wait, you didn't tell your best friend-slash-roommate you had brothers, Ford?" Shermie adds, looking hurt. "Aw, Stanford, really? It wasn't terrible when it was just your assistant, but this was your best friend-slash-roommate!"

"It didn't come up, I don't know anything about Fiddleford's family, either," Ford says defensively, and Stan and Shermie both snort helplessly. "What?"

"God, Ford!" Shermie huffs. "Alright, well- so- okay. You want to use my phone to call your friend, then?"

"You could use mine if you want," Stan says innocently and handing it over.

"Um, sure, Stan! I'll just- yeah, okay," Ford says, and Shermie raises an eyebrow at Stan while Ford's dialing.

"So you and Ford talked over you movin' up here, then?" he asks, and Stan nods. "Well... good, Stan. That's good. You know, uh, I know this means you won't... be able to come down to talk to Dr. Witter every week, but, you know, Skype is apparently a thing now."

"Skype's been a thing for, like, forever, Sherm-"

"I mean you can Skype with your therapist, noodle-brain," Shermie huffs, his eyes soft and warm when Stan glances up at them. "Mystery twins back at it again, huh?"

"Nobody ever- nobody ever called us that," Stan says, grinning, and Shermie waves a hand.

"Oh, no, we did. Completely behind your backs, but we did." Stan's... not sure what to say to that, stalling for time with a gulp of his coffee. Shermie takes out his phone, texting- probably to Jessie or Jake- before putting his phone down on the table. "So you wanted Ford to put his friend's phone number in your phone, eh?"

"I'm neither gonna confirm nor deny," Stan says automatically, and Shermie waggles his eyebrows at him.

"That- you know, that's totally okay. I mean- you should try to be out there, dating and like, having friends. This is all stuff you're gonna be doing. It's- you don't have to pretend you don't want it." Shermie clears his throat. "It's okay to want it."

Stan blinks at him, before looking down into his coffee. "I, uh... I don't know what I'm... allowed to want?" he asks quietly, and Shermie nods.

"I mean, you know. It's... been a rough couple of years, and you... you haven't really, uh, spent a lot of time figuring you out so much as you've kinda... you know... tried to figure out this family, instead, and, uh, that's totally alright, it's a good thing to do, but you need... you need to figure out what _you_ need."

"Ha, wow, I can tell you're used to arguin' for a living, that was- that was almost coherent," Stan says uncomfortably, leaning a little out of his chair until he catches Susan's attention. "Hey, uh- l-lady- can I also, uh, get an order of chili cheese fries?"

"Sure thing, handsome!" she calls back, and Shermie gives him a practically saintlike smile over the table.

"What?" Stan asks defensively.

"If you get married to the diner lady, your pancakes and chili fries will never run out," he says enticingly, and Stan nods slowly.

"I, uh... yeah," he says slowly. "Is that... do you want me to-"

"No, Stan, god, I mean, I just- I just want you to know... you know. You're my baby brother and all, but you're also my kids' hero. I have a lot of personal interest in you being happy, you know? I just... I just want you to find out what it is that'll make you happy, and then go after it, or... I dunno." He scratches the back of his head. "I'm kinda- look, I'm tryin' to give you a pep talk, can we just agree on that?"

"Yeah, I'm pepped," Stan nods.

"And... I know maybe you're not... ready to have a whole conversation about... what it is you want in life or who you might want or what that happiness might look like, but," Shermie gives the ceiling tiles a miserable glare, clearing his throat. "But I love you and whenever you do want to have a whole conversation about that, I'm... I'm here."

"Thanks," Stan says slowly, blinking. "Why, uh- why you lookin' constipated, Sherm?"

"I'm havin' a lot of feelings, Stan," he replies hoarsely. Stan averts his eyes and sips his coffee to avoid having to respond to that. Luckily, Ford hustles back over to them and hands Stan's phone back.

"Okay, well, good news," Ford says brightly. "Amanda's not mad at me."

"Who's Amanda?" Shermie asks, blinking.

"That's Fiddleford's wife!" Ford says proudly. "She also lived with us in college."

"So in other words, another friend- Ford, that's two friends, that's so great," Shermie says, nodding enthusiastically. Ford narrows his eyes slightly.

"Oh, so your assistant-slash-best friend is married?" Stan asks, slightly disappointed.

"Well, um. For- for now," Ford says, frowning. "That's kind of the bad news, ah, before he called last night, Fiddleford hadn't contacted Amanda and their son since January."

"Jeez! That's- that's a fuckin' lot, in that sentence, right there," Stan whistles- Shermie winces, nodding.

"But I explained to her that she shouldn't be mad at Fiddleford either, so," Ford adds, scooting into his seat. "She said thank you and that she will keep this in mind. So that's all right, then!"

"Is it?" Stan asks dubiously, just as Susan starts putting plates down in front of them.

"I mean- well, maybe," Ford says shyly, thanking Susan for his sandwich before picking up his fork and his knife. "I-I mean- you guys gave me a second chance, right? So things are... are probably going to be okay for Fiddleford, too."

The whipped-cream smiley face on Stan's pancakes looks almost like a winky-emoji today.

"You know what?" Stan decides. "I bet you're onto somethin' there, Ford."

"Well," Ford says seriously, cutting off a triangle of grilled cheese sandwich and spearing it onto the end of his fork, "I've been known to be a pretty smart fella sometimes."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Three months later..._

"Greetings, children!" A smiling man in goggles and a white, Victorian-looking labcoat waves brightly at the camera. His hands are covered in dark brown wool gloves, and they must have been made specially for him.

"Nobody says greetings-" A man who looks almost exactly identical to the first one crowds him out of the shot. His hair's in a messy ponytail and he's wearing a really nice suit, for some reason. "Hey, everybody, welcome back! Been a bit of a hiatus, sorry, but-"

"I say greetings all the time," the mad scientist says, pouting visibly. "And it's in my character's persona to-"

"Stop breakin'-" the guy in the suit starts wheezing with laughter. "Stop breakin' character! You're- you're supposed to stay in character!"

"Ah, I thought you might say that," the mad scientist says proudly. "Which is why my character is something I already am _all the time anyway._ " He turns the camera toward himself, grinning awkwardly. "Greetings, children! Today, we, uh- we're going to be making an unboxing video!"

"No, we're not!" his twin in the suit calls from off-camera. "Nothin' to do with that at all, Sixer!"

"As you can plainly agree," he continues solemnly, "a house, is, you know, kind of a box. And we're going to be opening the door to my house. Ergo, this is an unboxing-"

_"-that makes no sense! At all!"_

"-this is an unboxing video, Fiver, you don't even know what we're doing today, you can't tell me it's not an unboxing video-"

"Please- Sixer, for the love of-" The twin in the suit- Fiver- grabs the camera and points it back toward himself, eyes still streaming tears of laughter. "Please forgive my Mad Scientist brother, dear viewers. He literally found out about youtube yesterday."

"Fine, then you tell them what we're-" There's a loud crash, and in the background Sixer tilts his head to one side. "Shoot, it sounds like Jeff's gotten into the trashcans again, I'll be right back."

"Okay, buddy, you do that," Fiver says brightly, fixing a brilliant grin towards the camera. "Alright, fam, as you may have guessed, I've moved, which is why there haven't been any updates, you know. Life stuff! Important life stuff! Good news, though, I moved in with my devilishly handsome brother, so watch out for some new content comin' soon." He picks up the camera and walks it through a house- not exactly messy, but certainly cluttered, at one point passing by a life-sized replica of a tyrannosaurus skull on his way to the front door.

"So, full disclosure, Sixer was right earlier, I don't know what we're doin' today, but he's prrrretty insistent that I open the door in three- two- one-"

"Surprise!" a ten year old girl screams, kicking the door open. Her brothers- one her age and one a couple of years older- wave ferociously at the camera behind her. "Uncle Stan, were you surprised?"

"Yes," he says flatly, beaming into the camera. "I was certainly very surprised and not at all expecting to see any of you kids here."

"Oh, drat, you did the whole thing without me!" Sixer pretends to cry, still grinning nervously as he runs up from the side of the porch. "Do, uh, do any of you perchance have a delivery for a Mad Scientist?"

"I brought a thing I made in pottery class," the oldest boy says brightly, holding out something that looks like a small, lumpy goblet.

"I brought my book report on the Jersey Devil!" the little boy crows, holding a hefty stack of stapled papers over his head.

"I brought this many hugs!" the little girl roars, launching at him- he doesn't seem to be expecting the hit, but once he's got his breath back he picks her up in a hug.

"That is acceptable, where do I sign for the delivery?" he asks, and- still holding the camera- Fiver grins again.

"There you have it, folks. We have the kids for Memorial day weekend and, uh- what, like, until next Friday too?" he asks, and Sixer nods, still a little winded. "There ya go. We got six days together, so, you know, expect new episodes of Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained, Monster Jake's Makeup Tutorials-"

"And Mabel and Princess Sparklecastle Cool Stuff!" the little girl says happily, and Fiver shoots the camera a wink.

"Alright, Sixer, like we practiced!"

"Oh, uh, okay!" Sixer straightens his shoulders, eyes darting between his brother and the camera. "So if- so if you like cryptids or fun facts or, uh, or handsome science nerds, um, please- like and subscribe?"

Fiver winks at the camera again, and the video ends.


End file.
